


Nearsighted; Farsighted

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: Farsighted [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Brandy - Freeform, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Winterhawk Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 10:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: A set of suspicious murders has Chief of Police Carter calling in Section Chief Coulson from the BAU to help them catch what might be a serial killer.  As good as Detectives Rogers and Barnes are, they'll need help if they want to catch the unsub the press are calling Red Skull, a killer whose motives need to be evaluated close-up as well as from a distance. Barnes, especially - who doesn't like help and doesn't like people - might be surprised by the way this case unfolds, if he can manage to work with SSAs Romanoff and Barton long enough to find some answers.yep, it's the Avengers in a Criminal Minds AU, brace yourself. Clint and Bucky stumble against a unique case, a ruthless killer, and a set of skills that shouldn't match up as well as they do. For the Winterhawk fic exchange, 2018, the year I threw myself into the fireplace for love of this stupid pairing.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mariana_oconnor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/gifts).



> This fic cannot be started without:
> 
> 1\. An enormous thank-you to my betas, **lassarina** and **justira** , who helped wrangle this monstrosity into something i'm happy to have posted;  
> 2\. a proper set of warnings including: canon-typical violence and description, both for Avengers and Criminal Minds; an honestly aggressive use of the word fuck; explicit sex that resulted in a number of amazingly humorous comments from my betas; a love letter to the city of Baltimore, which I hate; and an understanding that any and all realistic details were dumb ass up on a map cause nothing here is meant to be real, only believable  
> 3\. an amorous dedication to the 12 bottles of brandy that bravely gave their lives so that this fic could be written, with an honorable mention dedicated to the Bota Box of Chardonnay, which fueled most of this story's dialogue  
> 4\. a shoutout to Criminal Minds, my first and worst fandom  
> 5\. a real appreciation of the Winterhawk fandom, who seem super fucking awesome  
> 6\. total respect for mariana-oconnor's prompt, which let me go nuts with AU and tropes, and I hope you enjoy the legions of bullshit i have unleashed

Chief of Police Peggy Carter wakes up at 3:24 AM on a Sunday to the obnoxiously predictable sound of her phone ringing.

She’s tired enough, usually, that she can sleep through most extraneous noise: she’s trained herself to do so. It’s the only way she’s keeping her sanity, these days; Baltimore is a city full of crime, and ever since the Eastern Seaboard Special Task Force had been created and stationed there, her life has been full of the challenge of solving and resolving horrible things. She’s trained herself to only wake up to: her alarm, the ring of her mobile, or completely unexpected house sounds that aren’t her cat, Petunia — so she reaches over and swipes the mobile on with the typical resignation that her night’s sleep is over.

“Chief Carter,” she answers, glancing at the phone to see the caller: Detective Inspector Steve Rogers. That’s not good news.

“Peg -- um. Chief. Sir. Three more dead,” Rogers says, and he sounds exhausted -- and Rogers _never_ slips on rank and title unless they’re very distinctly civilian. Peggy assumes that he’s seeing 3:25 AM from the other side, and that it’s very bad news indeed. “Johns Hopkins, Public Health. A professor, her post-doc, and a grad student.”

“More than three makes it serial,” calls Detective Special Operative Barnes in the background. He sounds wired; it’s how these two respond to the tough cases. Rogers tries to be overly formal and fails completely, while Barnes goes off to the circus. Peggy thinks to herself, _well, shit._

“What do you mean, more?” Peggy sits up in bed, stretches her back. “More as pertains to what, exactly?”

“Three shots to the head,” Rogers said, and he sounds dejected. “Just like last week’s sniper case. Ma’am. Sir.”

“Too specific to be a coincidence. It’s likely they’re related,” Peggy says as she gets out of bed. She’s going to have to go into the office for this. “Where are you and Barnes?”

“Just left the scene, sir,” Rogers says. “Local CSI is here, and we’ve gone over the scene with them and taken our own set of photos, but there isn’t much for us to do here until they’re done, well…”

“Tagging and bagging!” Barnes shouts from the background. Yes, they’re both about at their limit, Peggy infers.

“Right. Go get a couple of hours of sleep, both of you. I’m heading in to the office after I make the call. I expect to see you both at 7 AM sharp, and not so punch-drunk exhausted.”

“Fine,” Barnes whines, while Rogers asks: “The call, sir?”

“We aren’t equipped to deal with a serial killer this prolific, especially one that kills up close _and_ from a distance. Luckily, we have a resource available from my old days. I need to call BAU Section Chief Fury.”

“I’m sure we can—” Rogers begins.

“Get some sleep, Detectives. That’s an order. See you in my office at seven.”

“Roger,” Rogers says automatically, and Peggy hangs up on the sound of Barnes snickering.

She takes a second to sit down on the edge of her bed, rubbing her hands over her face and willing her brain to wake up completely. This will require plenty of tea. Baltimore’s local force is already overworked, and her own officers are barely making up the slack; and she can’t pull Rogers and Barnes completely off of their current work. Barnes, maybe; his Special Ops background might help the BAU, and he knows the area well. 

She flips through her mobile, finding the number saved under “Marcus” — the name Section Chief Fury had entered himself, with only one number on the contact. Peggy pauses, sighs, and thumbs the dial button.

Fury picks up after two rings. He sounds - he sounds the same as he does any other time she’s called him, even though he says, “Carter, do you know what goddamn time it is?”

Peggy chuckles despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. “It’s time for a serial killer, Nick. I need your team in Baltimore.”

“Motherfucker,” Fury says, distinctly pronouncing all the syllables. “Lemme phone Coulson. We’ll conference in for the details at what, six?”

“Seven will work better. I need to give Rogers and Barnes at least a few hours of sleep or I’ll end up shooting them both.”

“Let me guess,” Fury says with a grin. “Rogers can’t stop calling you sir and spouting procedure, and Barnes thinks everything’s goddamn funny as shit.”

“I see you’ve worked with them before,” Peggy says, smiling for a brief second. She and Fury have crossed paths dozens of times before, even though she went into law enforcement and he into the depths of the BAU, and one thing she appreciates is Fury’s way of making it seem like they just talked yesterday, rather than three years ago. He must have an amazing memory to be able to pull these things out.

“Set something up,” Fury says. “I’ll text you a number, it’s Pepper, it’ll get done.”

“Right,” Peggy says, although she has no idea who or what Pepper is, already scanning her closet for a suit which will clearly say, _not on my watch._. “I’ll see you at seven, sir.”

“Motherfuckers,” Fury says, and hangs up.

———

Clint Barton wakes up to the dulcet tunes of _Suit & Tie_ by Justin Timberlake, because Tony thinks it’s funny to fuck with his ringtones and Tony is an asshole.

He scrambles for his phone, managing somehow to swipe the call, and mumbles some kind of noise in that general direction. “Mrrfff?”

“Barton.” Coulson’s voice is crisp, urgent, and sounds more awake than Clint has ever been in his entire life. “Suit up. We’ve got a case.”

“Whahuh?” He still can’t get his mouth to work yet. “Sir?” There, that’s a word. He’s momentarily proud.

“I need you here by six,” Coulson says. “Don’t be late.” There’s a pause, and then Coulson says, “I’ll have coffee ready,” and hangs up on him.

Clint groans, heavily, into his pillow. The phone says it’s fucking 4:36 AM. It’s a Sunday. He went to bed at 1. Everything is terrible.

He’s trying to sort his limbs out when the phone rings again, this time blasting _Black Widow_ by Iggy Azalea, who he hates. He never should have told Tony how much he fucking hates pop. This time, he manages to be mostly coherent when he answers. “Tasha?”

“Do I need to come drag your ass out of bed,” she says, and it isn’t a question: it’s a threat.

“The room is spinning,” Clint whines. “And my legs don’t work.”

“I have no idea how you exist as a functional human being,” Natasha says. “I’ll pick you up at 5:30. Get the fuck out of bed, because if you aren’t ready by the time I get there, I’m going to end you.”

“I’m getting, I’m getting,” Clint says, managing finally to sit up. Belatedly he realizes he must have slept in his aids _again_ because everything’s been perfectly clear. “Christ. Fuck. Bring coffee.” 

“Make your own,” Natasha returns, and hangs up on him. That’s twice in one morning. One middle of the night. Whatever.

Clint stumbles out of the bedroom in his boxers, heading for the kitchen — for the coffee. Luckily, awake-Clint is actually a professional (occasionally), so his apartment go-bag is already sitting in the corner of his room. The coffee pot has a timer, but on Sundays Clint likes to sleep in until, say, lunchtime, so he has to go through the motions with the filter and the scoop and the water and the buttons, so many buttons. Once the pot starts gurgling he slumps down on the counter, staring idly into space. He fucking loves his job - the BAU team is incredible, and he gets to see all kinds of places and all kinds of messed-up people that make him feel a little better about his own past life choices - but he hates the schedule. He fucking hates schedule surprises like this one. Honestly, Clint loves sleep and he hates mornings and _technically_ this is still the middle of the goddamn night.

The coffee pot beeps that it’s finished, and Clint just picks up the entire carafe and carries it into the bathroom. He starts the water - his apartment isn’t anything fancy, but it has good water pressure - and drinks directly from the pot while he waits for the water to warm up. Anything can be a coffee mug if you’re determined enough, and Clint Barton is fucking determined to be a mostly-functional human being this morning.

He sets the pot on top of the toilet seat, so that he can reach it from the shower, and strips down and gets in. The warm water is a pleasant rush against his skin, and Clint stands in the spray for a minute or two, drinking his shower coffee out of the pot, and letting his body wake up. He makes a mental note to change all his ringtones back to a normal phone sound, and to change his goddamn password. Fucking Tony.

———

Bucky wakes up to the bleating sound of Steve’s phone alarm. It’s, like, some kind of animal noise, and Bucky hates it so much. It’s so stupid. It makes Steve smile every morning, though, which is also stupid, but Bucky can’t be too mad about that. 

He and Steve had crashed in one of the lounges in their headquarters - it’s the special one, that has two couches, both of them long enough for Steve’s giant ass growth spurt body, and a water cooler in the corner. They probably spend as much time crashed out in this lounge as they do crashed out at their apartment these days; the job’s been rough lately. Luckily, Steve and Bucky both are used to functioning on bits and pieces of sleep. The Army helped them figure that one out.

Bucky rolls further into the couch and yells, “Steve! Wake up and turn that goddamn thing off!”

There’s a groan from behind him, and then Steve says, “Good morning, sunshine.” The strange bleating-barking noise finally shuts up and Bucky sighs in happiness at the silence.

“Time is it anyway?” He asks, rolling over to face Steve’s couch. Steve always looks ridiculous in the mornings: broad chest, messy hair, stupid sleepy smile. 

“6:15,” Steve says. He’s on his back, looking at his phone, scrolling through something with the stupid sleepy smile on his face. 

“I could have slept another thirty minutes, you asshole,” Bucky says with no real rancor, sitting up and scrubbing his hands over his face. The metal one’s all warm from sleeping.

“Nah,” Steve says, easy. “We gotta go get breakfast and then get the files together for Peg— for Chief Carter.”

Bucky snorts. Stevie’s infatuated with their Chief of Police, and Bucky can’t decide if it’s hero worship or true love - probably a little bit of both, knowing Steve. That doesn’t mean Bucky isn’t going to take the piss out of Steve for it — they can both be professional when they need, but they’ve known each other since they were little, growing up in Brooklyn, which gives Bucky the right to make fun of Steve for nearly anything.

Steve virtuously ignores him. “Apparently the BAU has these amazing analysts, so we need to get all of our data and photos together and ship them off ASAP, so that the hackers can do their thing while the team is on the way.”

“Ugh,” Bucky says out loud. “Do they really have to show up here? You know I hate … working with people.” He grins at the look Steve throws him. “And people. In general.”

“Five murders, Buck?” Steve’s face is serious, and Bucky suddenly feels chagrined. “Five murders from the same guy, within a week, three shots to the head? Somebody skilled enough to do it from a distance, but ballsy enough to shoot them in the face too?” Steve swallows, looks away, and Bucky remembers how _good_ Steve is at heart. “We can’t solve that, not with all the other cases we have going on that can’t be dropped.”

“I know, Stevie.” He tries to put reassurance in his voice, even though he’s still cranky that they’re gonna have to share their offices with a bunch of feds for a few weeks. “Carter knows what she’s doing. I’m sure we’ll catch the guy in no time.”

Steve’s face gives a weak smile at the praise of his precious Chief of Police. “Well, up and at ‘em, Buck. If you help me get our notes scanned in, I’ll buy you that disgusting croissant sandwich you like so much.” 

Bucky rubs his hands over his face briskly, dispelling the remains of the sticky feeling of sleep, and pulls his hair back in a messy bun. “You’re on,” he says with a grin, “but I’ll need two sandwiches. We skipped dinner, remember?”

“You’re terrible,” Steve replies, but his grin has chased the last traces of stress and worry off his face, which Bucky counts as a victory.

———-

At precisely 7:00 AM EST, a number of phones ring in unison. 

“Patch us in,” Phil says, and Stark grins, does the usual gesture with his hands, and the holos are up around them. 

The screen directly across from Phil is showing an officer who must be Baltimore’s current Chief of Police, Peggy Carter: crisp lines of a uniform, red lips, and incredibly sharp eyes. Sitting to either side of her are officers that must be her detectives: the one to her left is blond, handsome, back straight and face schooled into neutral; the one to her right is lounging back in his chair, roguish, long hair in a bun pulled away from a charming smile. Phil’s trained to take in these details in moments; he’s found you can’t take the profiling out of the profiler, even though he tries not to do it to coworkers too often.

The screen to the left is Nick, arms crossed and face frowning, with SAC Maria Hill standing slightly behind. To the right, Stark’s filling up the holographic screen with pictures, data, details; Phil’s quick eyes catch blood, and gaping mouths, and then he glances back to the center screen and gives Chief Carter a nod.

“Section Chief Fury,” she begins, with a nod, “and Unit Chief Coulson. Thanks for gathering to meet with us on short notice. Peggy Carter, Chief of Police for the Eastern Seaboard Special Task Force, currently stationed in Baltimore. This is Detective Inspector Steve Rogers,” with a gesture towards the blond, who nods; “and Detective Special Operative James Barnes.” She gestures to the dark-haired man, whose insouciant smile becomes somewhat of a smirk. Peggy shoots him a small glance that Phil reads as a stand-in for rolling her eyes; Barnes’ smirk grows wider. Her crisp accent leaves absolutely no room for doubt, and the cadence of the words tells Phil that she may be British, but she’s as devoted to this position as any American.

“Phil Coulson, BAU,” he begins, picking up the conversational thread. “Here with me I have SSA Natasha Romanoff, SSA Clint Barton, Dr. Bruce Banner, Special Operative Thor Odinson, and our Technical Analyst and Communications Liaison, Tony Stark. SSAs Wanda and Pietro Maximoff are also on the line, along with two of our Home Analysts,” he adds; “they’ll be covering the case from the Bureau side, while we’re on location. And I assume you know SC Fury and SAC Hill.”

There’s a brief pause while all the video screens nod at each other, as if these introductions are real, and then Chief Carter neatly takes over. Phil can appreciate a true professional, and she’s ticking all the boxes. He looks forward to working with her. 

“Last Monday, October 13th, two men were found shot to death at the Druid Hill Park golf course. Both were PhDs, employees of ChemHealth Medical R&D, and both had been shot three times in the head from a long distance.” Chief Carter does something with the tablet before her, and with a quick blur of fingers from Tony, pictures appear on their third screen: ID cards for the two men, and the photos from the crime scene, blood and bits of shattered bone everywhere. Chief Carter is precise, no-nonsense, enunciating the details with little emotion, and Phil appreciates this as well.

“We were working through that case when, this morning, at approximately 2:00 AM, three individuals were found dead at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health. Each had been shot three times in the head, point-blank - a professor, her post-doc, and a PhD candidate.” As she names them, her fingers flick, and new photos come up to cover the first set: an older Asian woman, a white male in his 20s, and a black woman, probably in her 20s as well. Accompanying them are similar shots from the crime scene. The gore is the same. Phil looks, making clinical notes in his head.

“Three shots in the head is an odd signature,” Romanoff says, also looking at the images.

“A gross one,” Barton mutters under his breath, and across the line, Barnes chuckles, which earns him a glare from Rogers.

“The press are already calling him ‘Red Skull’,” Barnes offers. “Cause all that’s left is blood and bits of skull.”

“Someone has leaked details to the press,” Carter says, those red lips pressing together in a line that clearly is going to fire someone before the day is out. 

“We’ll want to get there as soon as possible,” Phil says. “Stark, you’re gonna want to search previous cases in Baltimore - look for the signature, but also anything close to it, multiple headshots or three shots to the body. Unsubs never start with shooting two victims - three times - with a sniper rifle. This guy’s killed before.”

“JARVIS is already searching for overlap between the victims,” Stark says, waving his hand. “I’ll get FRIDAY looking through cases from the past, hey, thirty years, if the lovely gentlemen are willing to throw open their databases for us.”

Phil watches Barnes’ mouth twist up in something, briefly, while Rogers stares Stark down and says calmly, “If the gentleman promises not to break it.”

Barton snorts, and Stark looks deeply affronted. “Break it? Break - Coulson, do these people even know who I am?”

Phil ignores him. “My team will be there late this morning. We’ll debrief further on the way, and look to meet up with you around noon to go over the details and what we’ve been able to find. Look forward to meeting you in person, Chief Carter.”

“Likewise, Agent Coulson.” Carter gives him a small smile, which Phil reads as a sign of professional respect, so he returns the gesture. “Carter out.”

“Keep me updated, Cheese,” Nick says, and Phil _doesn’t_ roll his eyes at the nickname, but he can’t help the tightening of his lips. “Fury out.”

Phil glances around at his team. Barton and Romanoff are, as usual, locked in whispered conversation with each other - how they work the best. Banner is flicking through screens on his tablet, reading at his usual incomprehensible speed, and Stark is already clattering away at a keyboard and muttering under his breath into the earpiece he wears connecting him to his home-built AI. Odinson has leaned back, his arms crossed, looking at Phil for direction. 

“Odinson and I are driving,” Phil says, and stands to leave. “Be there in twenty.”


	2. Sunday

Bucky’s out in the cubes talking shit with the Commandos after lunch when the feds arrive, so he’s too far to hear any of the introductions, but he _is_ treated to some fine commentary from the boys as they start filtering in.

The first two agents are devastatingly attractive, at least from a distance, which surprises Bucky somewhat. Dernier gives a low whistle as they walk in the door, and another as they automatically scan the room for threats. The taller one catches Bucky’s eye for a moment - messy blond hair cropped short, fierce jawline, a saucy grin as they make eye contact - and then moves farther in to let the rest of the team inside. His partner - red-headed, lithe, and lethal - mutters something to him, and he repeats the grin in her direction and is rewarded with an eye-roll. Despite their banter, they move like a pair trained to move together, like a partnership founded in blood. Bucky, with his experience, finds it familiar.

“She looks like she could kill me with her pinky,” Jones says wistfully.

Morita snorts. “I’ll take her pinky any day.”

“Christ,” Bucky says. “I have to work with them, you know.”

“Yep,” Jones says, “and we don’t. Shit, I’d take the other one, and I’m straight. Mostly.”

“You haven’t been mostly straight in years,” Morita shoots back, and Dernier mutters something French and obscene under his breath.

Falsworth is making a choked sound, as if he can’t decide whether to be offended or break down into terrible laughter. 

Dum-Dum grins at Bucky. “It’s your lucky day, Buck.”

“It really isn’t,” Bucky sighs, but he does stand up as an older man walks in the door, somehow looking perfectly pressed into a three-piece suit. His face is incredibly bland in that way Bucky knows means he’s packing heat underneath that executive exterior. Tall, Blond, and Handsome catches his eye again as he stands, and Bucky returns the wink with his best glower. Behind the suit is another man in a suit, this one wrinkled beyond recognition, and then a giant of a man that looks as if he’s built out of muscle and glory. Trailing behind them all is a shorter man with a goatee, seemingly arguing with himself. Bucky shakes his head, but dutifully walks over to where he sees Carter and Steve standing. 

“Right,” Carter continues, not missing a beat, “and this is Detective Special Operative James Barnes. He’s been mostly reassigned as your support for this particular case. We’ve set up our biggest conference room for your team. This way?”

Carter turns on her heel, forcing the BAU team to filter through Steve and Bucky, shaking hands one by one.

“SSA Natasha Romanoff,” Redhead says. Her handshake is brisk, sharp, and she doesn’t offer anything else.

“Delighted,” says Tall Blond and Handsome, shaking Steve’s hand and then turning. “SSA Clint Barton. Even more delighted,” and his voice drops down into a flirty purr as he shakes Bucky’s hand. His handshake is warm, inviting, and his smirk is so attractive Bucky wants to punch it off his face.

“Unit Chief Phil Coulson.” This is the Suit; his handshake is as bland as his smile, and Bucky knows that means he’s hiding some shit. Steve says something appreciative - of _course_ Steve was looking up their backgrounds and career highlights, while Bucky was gossiping with the Commandos - and Coulson’s face lights up somewhat, the smile taking ten years off of his accountant’s face.

Next in line is the guy Bucky has to crane his head up to look at. His arms are the size of tree trunks, but his blond hair is longer than Bucky’s which is pretty awesome. He smiles happily at them, eagerly shaking hands. “Special Operative Thor,” he says, his voice booming. “Thor Odinson. I am most honored to meet such fine detectives.” Steve’s grinning, obviously amused, and Bucky lets himself unclench a little bit, cause this guy is something else.

Last in line are Crumpled Suit Guy and Crazy Goatee Man. “Dr. Bruce Banner,” Crumpled Suit says, exhaustedly, “and this is Tony Stark. He’s arguing with his AI right now and he’s not going to talk to you, which is fine, because then you don’t have to pretend to be happy to meet him.” Banner shakes both their hands and then tugs at Stark’s sleeve. “C’mon, Tony,” he sighs, pulling the other man behind him. Stark walks through, muttering into a headpiece, “that’s not _enough,_ J, I don’t need circumstantial. Look into the oxidation reaction, the acid reflux - _that’s_ your key. Don’t sass me, you know I’m on to something.”

Bucky looks at Steve, opening his hands in an obvious _what the fuck_ gesture.

“Don’t ask me,” Steve says, “I think they seem quite nice.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans. “Stevie, you’re killing me.”

They follow the train into the conference room, where the agents are setting up. Dr. Banner steers Stark into a chair and then opens up the briefcase he’s carrying, setting a tablet down on the table. Stark immediately commandeers it, flicking at the screen to project a keyboard onto the table, and his fingers start flying, punctuating his mumbling. Banner glances up at them, shrugs apologetically, and then pulls out a second tablet and a stack of folders that he places in front of him.

Barton and Romanoff have pulled out their tablets, and have their heads together, murmuring. Odinson sits down next to Banner, who gives him a rueful smile, getting a blinding grin in return. Coulson and Carter are standing at the front of the room, conversing in low voices. 

Steve decides to sit down on Stark’s other side, which seems dangerous. Bucky doesn’t want to sit with the cool kids. He’ll stand by the door, thanks.

“Let’s start,” Coulson calls, and nearly everyone snaps to attention. “Stark,” he says, now sounding incredibly patient, “debrief us, please.”

“Stop talking to yourself,” Barton shoots, and Stark glances up.

“I don’t _debrief_ for just anyone, Barton, keep your hands to yourself.” Stark grins at his innuendo, and Barton just rolls his eyes. “JARVIS, have we got - okay,” and then Stark’s hands are tossing something in the air, and a big holoscreen is floating in the center of the table. Huh. That’s pretty cool.

“First two vics,” Stark starts. “At the, uh, golfing. Dr. Amid Baskaran, 44, and Dr. Howard Mills, 37. Cause of death, obviously three bullets to the head, currently going through trace. No GSR, so shooter had to be at some distance. Witnesses heard the shots, but no one was close enough to the two doctors to see much of anything before they collapsed.” He flicks his fingers, and the crime scene shots fill the screen. “JARVIS has calculated some basic trajectory, based on angle of the bullets and the way the bodies fell, but it’s going to take some on-site hunting to figure out where the shooter was sitting.”

“They were co-workers, correct?” Carter asks, and Bucky recognizes her prompting voice, when she knows something but asks the question as a lead to get more information.

“Not just co-workers, they were on the same project team. JARVIS couldn’t find much in the public statements, so someone’s going to have to go visit this ChemHealth and be very friendly and convincing, sooooo… I elect not Barton,” and Stark grins at the other man across the table, who tosses a crumpled piece of paper his way. It hits Stark directly between the eyes. Bucky’s momentarily impressed - good shot. Then he remembers that he hates people, and hunches back against the doorway.

“Right,” Coulson says. His elbows are propped on the table, his fingers tapping each other, and Bucky knows from his posture that he’s got ideas bubbling behind his eyes. “And the other case?”

“Three simultaneous vics,” Stark continues, swiping the photos off the screen with an extravagant motion and pulling the next set up in its place. “Professor Siu Chin, 47. Dr. Andrew Hergenroad, 27, Chin’s post-doc, and Missy Colton, 24, one of Chin’s grad students. All found in the same lab, shot three times to the head point-blank this time, which you’ll find in the dictionary under _gratuitous_ and _disgusting_. No witnesses, although since they were shot around like, two in the morning, that isn’t too surprising.”

“Are we sure it’s the same shooter?” Romanoff asks. Her voice is lower than Bucky expected, almost devoid of inflection, and he wonders whether English is in fact her second language. “I get the signature, but profiles are completely different for LDSKs versus shooting somebody in the face.”

“We’ll have to build multiple profiles for now,” Coulson says, “until we determine whether it’s a signature from one, a team working together, or two random unsubs who happen to be similar.” His eyes close, briefly, and Bucky risks another glance around the table. Okay, another glance at Barton. He’s currently folding a tiny piece of paper into something that looks like a fucked up swan, while Romanoff hisses at him. This close, Bucky can see stubble on Barton’s jaw, a bandage on his forearm, the quick dimple when he grins at Romanoff before launching the tiny origami bird across the table. Again, it hits Stark between the eyes.

“Hawkeye, I swear to god,” Stark begins, but Coulson’s eyes open and they all straighten up again. It’s almost funny.

“Chief Carter,” Coulson asks, “I understand we have your two detectives available to us this week?”

“Yes.” Carter sends them both a searching look that’s too close to a glare to really be friendly. “Detective Rogers may need to be pulled back for a few of our current cases, but Detective Barnes should be able to assist you.” She smiles at Bucky, one of those fake smiles she plasters on that are more scary than her glares, her way of telling Bucky to behave. “He has experience with sniper rifles and long-distance shooting that should be very helpful to your team.”

Eyes turn to him, and Bucky tries not to frown and also not to shoot lasers at Carter with his eyeballs. He thinks he’s successful, until he glances at Steve, who’s trying not to laugh.

“Okay,” Coulson says. “Stark, plug in. Get JARVIS and FRIDAY going through records. We’ll spend today reviewing everything we have - matching up our info with yours, make sure everyone is on the same page and no one is missing any vital details. There may not be a lot we can do until people are back in their offices tomorrow.” He pauses for a second, looking down at the table, obviously thinking.

“Banner, I’ll need you and Thor to hit up ChemHealth and Johns Hopkins, get your hands on whatever research records they’re willing to give you. Force the issue if you must, we’ll subpoena what we need anyway. You may have to wait until tomorrow when they’re open, so spend today doing the footwork and looking up staff, unless someone answers their phone. Let Tony know if you need any home phone numbers.”

Coulson glances upwards, then, his eyes flicking through the room. “We’re going to need local assistance to start. Barton, you and Barnes check out the golf course trajectories. I want you to figure out where the shooter was and what the spot tells us. Romanoff, you take Rogers, and check out the Johns Hopkins crime scene. Carter and I will coordinate from here.”

Of course, Bucky thinks. Of fucking course.

He stays hunched at the door as the room goes to casual conversation. He’s watching Steve make the rounds - further introducing himself, asking each of the agents about their backgrounds, their experience. Of course he is. Stevie’s always been a good cop, a good detective. Bucky’s damn good too, but in a totally different way. 

Coulson and Carter are setting out file folders with what must be the debriefing material. Eventually Bucky relents and pulls out a chair at the table next to exactly no one, grabs a folder, and starts to flip through. They hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to gather any information, here at the precinct, so it’s nice to have this packet of the victims’ backgrounds, history. He knows that usually becomes important, quick.

The chair to his right suddenly flips around, and Barton looks at him, grinning.

“Noticed you’re not making nice like your buddy. Something in your pocket, or are you just not happy to see us?”

Bucky grunts. “I don’t need to make friends to do my job.”

Barton laughs, warm and inviting. “Don’t you wanna know a little something about the guy who’s gonna have your back?”

“Who, Steve?” Bucky snorts. “Already know him.”

“You’re working with us now.” Barton leans in. He seems genuinely curious, friendly, rather than like he’s trying to be annoying. Bucky sighs. He can’t help that he’s so bad with people; he came away from the Army with a fake arm, a scowl, and a huge set of matching luggage full of POW trauma. He just doesn’t like having to interact with people who aren’t Stevie, or Peggy, or the Howlies. But mostly Steve.

“C’mon,” Barton adds. “Working with the BAU. You have to be ...curious,” and he gives Bucky one of those smiles that has to be a patented smirk, designed to look good.

Bucky takes a moment for a longer look. Barton is just as attractive up close; he’s put on these fucking glasses, rectangles with dark wire rims, and they make his face softer, framing deep blue eyes and accentuating a square jaw. He’s either got hearing aids in or some fancy kind of comm mic earpiece, not unlike Stark’s. His arms are bulging almost out of his t-shirt, which is maybe a size too small for the muscle on that frame. It’s a combination that could hit almost every one of Bucky’s buttons, except that he’s already irritated.

But two can play at this game. “Are you always this smooth?” He asks, letting the sarcasm seep through.

To his surprise, Barton chokes out a laugh - and this is a real one, not smooth at all. “Oh, hell no,” he says, his grin quirking sideways. Then he looks Bucky up and down - respectfully, not lavisciously, but with interest - and adds, “maybe I just have some extra motivation.”

Bucky snorts. “Well, don’t ruin it. Keep the mystery alive.” _Go away,_ he’s trying to say, except that his brain isn’t exactly one hundred percent into that.

“Mmm, but I’m a profiler,” Barton says, and scoots the chair closer. “It’s my job to figure out what makes people tick.”

Bucky just levels him a look, one eyebrow raised. He’s not gonna respond to that one.

“Your buddy, Rogers,” Barton murmurs, glancing across the room to where Steve is chatting happily with Odinson, gesturing away. “He’s one of the good ones, isn’t he? Really believes in it, justice and protecting the people and all of that. He’s actually here to make the world a better place, yeah?”

“What’s wrong with that,” Bucky replies, instantly defensive.

“Hey,” Barton says, raising his hands. “I see what I see. No need to get all snarly,” and he winks, “unless you like it.”

“Alright, then,” Bucky says, tilting a little to face Barton. His eyes behind the glasses are sparkling; it’s a good look for the asshole. “Go ahead. Profile me.”

Barton tilts his head, and runs his eyes slowly down Bucky and then back up, again. He bites his lip. “Usually I don’t give it out for free,” he says, his voice low and sultry, and _Christ_ does he ever go off of auto-flirt?

Bucky leans in a little, smug when he sees a brief flush across Barton’s face. “Go on, Agent,” he says, dripping with sarcasm. “Read me like one of your French girls.”

“I think you’d enjoy that too much,” Barton murmurs, and then adds, “but I’ll give you this one for free. You present a closed book, body language hunched in like you got something to hide. Not approachable.” He pauses, the smirk going even more wry. “But that’s just a presentation, isn’t it? Is there something in the book worth reading?”

“A whole lotta fuck off,” Bucky says immediately, and Barton barks a laugh again, loud and unexpected.

“Christ, you’re killing me,” he says, and stands up. “Alright, I’m done. _For now._ ”

Bucky looks up, keeping his expression dead neutral, and winks at him, making it obviously fake. Barton shakes his head, and leaves.

———

“Clint,” Tasha says, “will you stop fidgeting and go over this with me.” It’s the inflection she uses when she’s trying to be sympathetic to Clint’s usual disaster habits, but wants something out of him. 

He can’t help it; he’s _fidgety._ It’s a natural reaction to a new case, a new crew, a new location. It’s part excitement, part a building awareness of the case, the unsub, and the risks; initially Clint thought it would get better over time, but it seems that it’s just part of his personality.

“God, you’re like a five year old,” Tasha mutters, and tugs his arm so that they’re both looking down at the dossier.

They flip through the victims, watching Clint’s tablet as updates pop up as Stark and Banner start their digging. So far there are no real similarities that they can find between the victims other than the three bullets in their heads and that they’re all dead. That’s helpful.

“I wanna go to the site,” he says, because he does. He’s so much better in the field than sitting here with files and holos. 

“No,” Nat says, “you want to stay here and make sure you know what you’re going out there looking for, like a good profiler.”

Clint continues to squirm and Nat finally leans in and whispers, “Okay. You can say it. Whatever it is. Once. Get it out.”

Clint turns to whisper in her ear: “He’s so hot I think I’m gonna _die._ ”

Natasha casually surveys the room, marking Rogers and Barnes. “Not bad,” she murmurs. “Which one, Chocolate or Vanilla? Either way, better taste than your usual.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” Clint says, but he’s laughing, and she laughs with him.

Nat’s the best. She’s not just a coworker - she’s a friend, a sister, a partner. They’ve worked together a long time, and not always on things as important or noble as the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The whole team feels like a family, really, but he and Nat are the best together, always.

“I’m inviting them over” is the only warning he gets before Nat stands up and calls: “Rogers! Barnes? Can you come join us, give us some information about the neighborhood?”

Rogers turns immediately to come and take a seat across from Nat. He isn’t smiling - probably has been reading the dossiers - but seems approachable. Even without a smile, his face is friendly. “Not a problem.”

In a few seconds, when Barnes hasn’t even turned around, Rogers raises his voice the slightest bit and says, “Captain America _sucks._ ”

“What?” Barnes yells from across the room, and when he turns to see that Rogers is, apparently, teasing him, his entire face goes sour, although he still walks over. “You fuckin’ punk,” he tells Rogers, who only smiles.

Clint watches the byplay. He wants to be making astute observations in his head, warming up his profiling skills on the locals, but half his brain’s gone offline, confused by being both angry at and grateful to Nat. All police officers drink coffee, like, round the clock, right? There has to be coffee he can steal to put into his face. If he has to put up with this much hotness across the table, he’s gonna need extra caffeine.

“Should I know Captain America?” he asks her in a low tone. Tasha just laughs.

“Old Army joke,” Rogers offers easily. “How can we help?”

Barnes grumbles as he sits down across from Clint. Wow, this guy really isn’t very friendly at all. Clint usually hates that, and this time he hates it specifically because he gets the feeling Barnes is devastatingly handsome when he smiles and he’d like to see it once before they all go off to chase a murderer and possibly get shot. He doesn’t ask for much.

“What can you tell us about the first site?” Nat asks.

“It’s a golf course in the middle of a park in the middle of the city,” Barnes deadpans. Rogers glances at him, and now Clint isn’t sure whether Barnes is being sarcastic at the BAU, or trying to wind up _Rogers_. Either way it should be fun to watch, even at his own expense.

“Druid Hill’s one of the oldest parks in the country,” Rogers says, genially, with a mere flick of his eyes towards Barnes. “There’s the Zoo, the Botanical Gardens, bunch of trails and workout stuff in addition to the _golf course in the middle of the park.”_

“What’s the usual crowd like?” Nat asks. “This would have been after regular work hours, I think sometime around 1700?”

Rogers shrugs. “Hard to say,” he says. “There’s stuff for all ages, especially Monday nights. I forget what the weather was like.”

Nat pointedly looks at Clint, as if to say, _are you going to leave me all the conversational duties?_ Clint sits up, rubs the back of his neck, and says, “So what do we already know? I mean, this happened last Monday, you’ve had a week, you must have something.”

Barnes’ mouth tightens into a hard line and Clint retroactively realizes he’s chosen the worst possible wording. “I mean, uh, I didn’t mean…”

Rogers’ eyes seem to be laughing at him. “Long-distance ballistics aren’t nearly as common in most standard police departments,” he points out. “There’s a chance we’ll have last night’s bullets before last week’s.” 

Barnes looks up through his eyelashes, sultry, and tips a shoulder. “Sorry we’re not the FBI,” he drawls. 

“Christ,” Clint says, “it isn’t like we’ve never worked with a police department before.”

Rogers clears his throat. “What we _do_ have is already in there.” He gestures at the dossier. 

Tasha gives him a really severe look, so bad it makes Barnes snort.

“Baskaran,” Nat reads pointedly from the file. “Doctorate in Biology. Married, for nine years, two kids. Looks like he’s friends with Mills and his husband outside of work, too. What are you _doing?_ ”

Clint looks down to realize he’s walking a quarter across his knuckles. Whatever. He’s fidgety again, and he needs something to help him focus. Something that isn’t Barnes’ face. 

“So,” he says, “it could be professional, personal, or random selection of two guys on a golf course. Is there any way to narrow it down?”

“Why would somebody take out a professional hit on two doctors?” Barnes scoffs. “Were they up to anything shady?”

“Not that we found,” Rogers says absently, flipping through his own file. “But I’m assuming the FBI has a much deeper database than we do.”

“If there’s dirt to be found, Tony will find it.” Clint grins. “It’s like his favorite thing.”

“Mills,” Nat says, bringing them back. “Married, five years, no children. There’s no common ground in the demographics. Indian, white; straight, gay; kids, no kids. I guess they’re both married, but that isn’t often a critical statistic.”

“Right,” Clint says, caught up in it with her now. “So the commonality is either the friendship or the work relationship. More likely to be work, unless the shooter is personally attached somehow.”

“Personal attachment doesn’t really parse with an LDSK,” Nat muses. 

“Nope.” Clint opens his folder, tapping his fingers against the first page, not really reading. “So this is either about their work, or it’s random selection of two victims that were available right when the unsub felt like shooting somebody.”

“I would have bought random before the second shooting.” Nat shakes her head. “Could have been convenience, something driving the unsub to lash out that day. But assuming the second shooting is the same guy…”

“It’s something about them at work.” Clint sighs. “What the fuck are they working on?”

Nat shrugs, and Clint belatedly realizes that Rogers and Barnes have been watching them go back and forth. “Sound right?” he asks them, giving Barnes a big grin.

“Seems logical when you say it that way.” Rogers nods. “It’s just process of elimination, sort of.”

“Let’s work the second shooting,” Nat says, flipping through the dossier. Rogers follows, and Clint sort of moves his pages around in front of him, really just looking for a blank page he could fold into something to hit Tony with.

“We don’t have as much on this one,” Rogers says apologetically, “since it just happened.”

“You’ve got ID, at least.” Nat sets the pages out in front of her. “Professor Siu Chen. 58, doctorate in public health. Not married, but long-term partner, Hari Pining. Andrew Hergenroad and Missy Colton, both from his department. Not a lot of information on their graduate work here.”

Rogers shrugs. “Not like I’d know what it means.” Something unhappy crosses Barnes’ face, but he says nothing.

“Same, my man, same,” Clint says, having found a mostly-blank page to fold into a paper airplane. “That’s the doctor’s job.”

“What are you doing?” Barnes asks, his mouth turned grumpy.

Tasha slaps her hand down on Clint’s half-folded paper. “You’ll have to excuse Agent Barton,” she says sweetly. “He’s very good at what he does, but has the attention span of a box of crayons.”

“It helps me _think,_ ” Clint says, and it comes out more sulky than he intended; he knows Nat is just teasing, but he’s tired of being labeled an idiot this soon out of the gate. Especially in front of Rogers and Barnes, who seem like pretty cool dudes who are also hot as shit. He tugs the paper out from under her hand, gesturing more dramatically than his usual to make a point to Nat. “Plus, it’s stress relief.”

There’s an odd little silence that Clint ignores as he finishes his folding, and then he takes careful aim across the room.

“Fuck!” Stark yells, attracting everyone’s attention to the mark on his cheek where Clint just pegged him with a paper airplane. “Hawkeye, I will end you, I will have JARVIS shit in your shoes like a _cat_.”

Clint gives him a very smug shrug, one hand in the air, and turns back to his table to take a little bow.

Rogers is laughing, Nat sighs in his direction, and Barnes actually snorts once before realizing he might be displaying an emotion and resetting his expression into resting bitch face.

Clint’ll take it.


	3. Monday

No one’s phone rings Sunday night into Monday morning, until around 6AM, when a slew of alarms start going off.

6AM on a Monday might be Clint’s usual time to get up, but that’s when he’s gotten normal sleep the night before; he throws his phone at the wall and stuffs his head down as far into the pillow as it goes. 

Thirty seconds later, a pillow smacks him in the ass. Fucking Tasha.

“I hate sharing a room with you sometimes,” she says, although her voice is full of affection. She’s climbing into his bed, ripping away the pillow fort he’d managed to build around himself one by one, hitting him with each one before tossing them away. “You never shut off your alarm, and I have to lie there and listen to it until I admit I’m going to have to drag you out of bed myself.”

“Go ‘way,” Clint mumbles. 

“Nope,” she sings. Natasha’s always weirdly happy in the mornings when they’re on a case; Clint thinks it’s because they always room together, and it’s a flashback to the shitty periods of both their lives when they found each other, except much better and also with guaranteed continental breakfast. He loves seeing her like this, carefree and whimsical, even if it means she wins every pillow war they’ve ever had.

“Taaasha,” Clint whines, because no matter how much he loves Nat he loves sleep just as much. He tries to keep hold of his last remaining pillow and burrow underneath the comforter.

“ _Clint_ on,” she enunciates. “Come on. It’s six in the morning, we meet at seven, and I know you want to shower and shave and look exceptional for your new partner today.”

“Mmmfbrg,” Clint manages, because he’s remembering Barnes yesterday: those pale eyes, the heavy gaze, long eyelashes and sharp fucking cheekbones. What the hell had happened to him? He’d been flirting a little, sure, but not even Natasha would have been able to hold out against a face like that. Clint’s sure an entire day in the team’s presence is going to completely ruin everything. Not that there’s anything. This is a murder case, and an unleashed serial killer lies at the end of the path.

“Cliiiint,” Natasha says again, drawing his name out to two full syllables, which means she’s about to get serious. “Get up and go take your shower before I drag you in there myself.” The thing about Natasha’s threats is that she’s either made good on them before, or is perfectly confident in her ability to do so. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s dumped him in the tub.

Clint flails his way out of the tangle of comforter and blanket and finally gets out of bed, stretching his arms to the ceiling. “Go shower and put some fucking clothes on,” Natasha says, but she’s already moving towards the coffee pot, bless her for eternity, so Clint stumbles into the hotel bathroom and starts the water, dropping his aids on the counter. 

Nat interrupts him in the middle of soaping up with a paper cup full of coffee, which Clint accepts in sudsy hands and chugs instantly. His brain isn’t the best in the morning, and he requires at least three cups before his mouth becomes functional again. He chucks the empty cup over the top of the shower curtain and finishes his shower quickly, so that Nat has time for hers.

He exits in a towel and she slips in, already discarding her pajamas. Nudity isn’t shit to them anymore; they don’t necessarily flaunt, but they’ve each seen what the other has to offer too many times for it to really matter. Clint gets dressed in an outfit much like yesterday’s, just with his leather jacket overtop the tee, and gets to lacing his boots. There’s no more coffee; it’s one of those single-serve things all the hotels have now. So stupid. He’s glad for Coulson’s consistent insistence at nicer hotels with complimentary beverages.

“Nat?” He calls. “I’m gonna go find more coffee.”

“Don’t get lost,” she yells back over the water. “And say good morning to Chocolate and Vanilla for me.”

Clint slams the door a little too loud, just to convey a message. 

——

Bucky’s on his fourth cup of coffee and his second hastily-assembled breakfast sandwich - Peggy had breakfast catered in at the precinct, which is _great,_ cause Bucky loves free breakfast food - when someone trips at the door and knocks over a giant pile of paper cups.

Everyone else is in the conference room, so Bucky wanders over to help pick them up, and of course it’s fucking Barton. He looks - softer - this morning, his hair still damp and smelling like the hotel shampoo, and his face scrunched slightly as if he hasn’t properly woke up yet. He’s wearing another stupid fucking tight t-shirt, today’s in blue, and a leather jacket that looks so worn-in it’s liable to fall apart before the day’s over. He blinks up at Bucky, his hands full of cups, mouth partially open, and Bucky is suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of desire to lean in and chase away that sleepiness with his fingertips. What the fuck? He _never_ has that kind of reaction. Barton must be a special kind of stupid, or something.

“You’re a fucking disaster,” he says instead, and takes the cups from Barton’s hands, because frankly the man looks like he’s about to curl up and drool on the carpet. Bucky stacks them up, gathers the rest on the floor, and stands up to set the towering column back on the buffet table. Barton is still blinking up at him, so Bucky extends a hand - his right arm - and is only partially surprised when Barton accepts it.

The man wavers on his feet a little, and then looks at Bucky and says, quite pathetically and plaintively: “Coffee?”

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, and steers him over to the table, sitting him down in Stevie’s seat. “Don’t move.” Barton offers this weirdly soft smile, and Bucky swallows and ignores it as he goes to fill a cup with coffee, snagging sugar and creamer along the way. He deposits it on the table and throws himself back into his seat, saying, “Barton, you’re a fucking menace to society.”

He doesn’t mean to be this - friendly? - this morning. He’d intended to continue his usual grumpy self, avoid having Carter ask him for anything else, and hopefully let the genius team solve the crime. Instead, here he is, getting coffee for this pathetic asshole he had fully intended to avoid. He can’t help it though: everything that was hot about Barton yesterday - solid jawline, focused gaze, obvious intelligence - is now full of soft edges and flaws and _fuck_ if Bucky isn’t having trouble drawing his eyes anywhere except for Barton’s throat as he drinks the coffee down.

“It’s Clint.”

Bucky nearly chokes on a bite of his sandwich. Instead, he waits to swallow, and then looks up, making some kind of noncommittal noise.

Barton smiles, a real smile, broad and almost sweet, and god, this guy in the morning is almost unbearable. It’s like he’s stoned or something. “Anyone who brings me coffee gets to call me Clint.”

The cup is already empty, and Barton holds it out to Bucky, this awful hopeful look on his face.

“Oh my _god_ , you’re worthless,” Bucky says, but the guy’s as pathetic as Stevie was at fourteen, and it’s like Bucky’s brain must have a soft spot for blond idiots, because he’s up refilling the cup before he’s thought of a proper retort.

He sets the second cup down in front of Barton and has just settled in his seat when the redhead - Agent Romanoff - walks into the dining room and swings a chair up to their table, sitting in it backwards and glancing between the two of them as if she’s seeing far more than there is to see. She drops something on the table - two little earpieces, or aids, or whatever. “You forgot these, Clint.”

“Agent,” Bucky says, and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“Taaaasha,” says Barton, grinning at her over his cup. “Detective _Barnes_ got me _coffee._ ” He follows this up with a respectable slurp, and Bucky chuckles when Romanoff winces at it, pushing the cup away from Barton’s face.

“You are reprehensible,” she says, but then turns to Bucky and continues, “but thank you for taking care of him. He’s truly useless in the mornings.” 

“Looked like it,” Bucky says, tipping one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I can’t leave a partner hanging.” The words catch up with him in a couple seconds, and he shakes his head and looks over at Romanoff. She’s beaming, as if Bucky has said the absolute perfect thing. Suddenly scared, he glances over at Barton, who lowers the cup of coffee long enough to give him another genuine smile, almost shy, and suddenly Bucky _has_ to leave.

“Drink up,” he says to both of them as he stands up. “See you at debrief.” He gestures awkwardly at the conference room, and then ducks his head and leaves. A couple of the Howlies are there, and he gives them a sloppy salute as he leaves their lunchroom and heads into the conference room the BAU has taken over.

He takes the seat next to Stevie, no surprise there: the surprise is that Steve’s sitting next to Stark, and they’re actually having some kind of coherent conversation. Bucky actually turns his chair to listen, because even he has to admit that Stark’s technology is amazing, although he’s happy to listen rather than contribute at this point.

“How does the hologram _know,_ though,” Steve is asking, and Stark laughs. His voice is as low as Steve’s, which seems funny coming from that particular face, but Bucky has to admit it’s a little charming too. 

“Right, so,” Stark says, waving an arm, and some kind of holographic picture starts to build on the table in front of Steve, who looks _delighted._ “JARVIS has the entire BAU database to pull from - all of those profiles, all of those actually solved cases - everything, statistically, building in on itself, until…” Stark taps something into his keyboard and then flings his fingers - Bucky wonders whether the dramatics are required or if that’s a Stark-centric addition - and a replica of a room, maybe a classroom, appears in front of Steve in miniature.

“Look!” Steve says, tugging on Bucky’s arm as if he’s not looking already.

“Here’s the best part,” Stark says, his fingers rolling over the keyboard — he isn’t even looking as he types. “Let’s take… okay, so here’s our initial build of the crime scene at Johns Hopkins - you and Romanoff will be getting me some better measurements, but we can work with this for now. Using the information we have, we then build models of where the shooter may have started and ended based on bullet trajectory and what we know about how unsubs usually approach this kind of scene. Here’s if it’s a white man, twenty to thirty,” and another flick of the fingers projects a set of positions outlined in blue. A flurry of typing, and then, “here’s forty to fifty,” and another set of humanoid outlines in orange settles into the image. “And,” Stark says, finishing with a single click to some button on the keyboard, “here’s the projection if the shooter’s a woman.” Red outlines join the projection, very different from the previous two projections.

“They’re so _different,_ ” Steve says, reaching a finger out to trace the head of the figure lined in blue.

“How the fuck do you do that?” Bucky asks before he realizes he’s speaking out loud.

Stark laughs. “It’s just programming, bud. Statistics. Mathematical predictions. Criminal Science, turned into numbers. It isn’t always right, sure, but it gives us a place to start from, which is more than they had ten years ago.” He grins. “Our database has a lot of math on how serial killers shoot people. It helps us work backwards to a profile.”

Bucky refuses to answer, instead turning his attention to Steve, who is poking at the hologram, expanding and contracting certain parts to see the minute detail. “This is unbelievable,” Steve says, turning to grin at Stark. 

“I know,” replies Stark, “I built it.” It would be smug from anyone else — and okay, it’s a little smug, but the way that Stark’s smiling at Stevie as if he’s never been complimented before takes away a lot of the sting.

Bucky’s about to make some kind of inappropriate comment when the seat on his other side yanks away from the table. He rolls his head around, expecting Barton, but not expecting the man to have his ankle hooked around the chair and two cups of coffee in his hand. 

“Payback,” Barton says, setting one cup in front of Bucky and then collapsing into the chair as if his knees were cut. “Morning, partner.” It looks like Barton may finally be more awake than asleep.

“Morning,” Bucky says, breathing in the scent of the coffee and glancing over at the other man, “Clint.”

He didn’t mean it to come out so husky, or low - he isn’t trying to seduce the man, just saying his name - but there’s a flash of heat in Barton’s eyes and he drops his gaze to watch the end of Bucky’s mouth saying his name. Bucky’s mouth tugs up despite himself and Barton watches that too, before flicking his eyes back to Bucky’s. It’s an incredibly intimate moment, hot with promise, and why the fuck does this keep happening?

Coulson’s voice rises above the general din of conversation. “Let’s get started.”

He gives them a second to settle. Steve’s got his notebook, and Bucky grabs the pad of paper he’d brought; beside him, Barton taps on one of those super-powered tablets - Romanoff must have carried it in for him - and slides it over a bit so that Bucky can at least watch.

Coulson’s standing at the front of the conference room, with Carter seated behind the desk, thermos of what Bucky knows is tea sat in front of her. She has one of the tablets. 

“Banner, Odinson,” Coulson says first. “I want you off to meet your contacts at Hopkins and ChemHealth. Stay online with Tony. Anything you can get out of them, give to him. We need to know what they were working on, why it might be important, any conflicts with coworkers or bosses — you know the drill. We’ll update you as we gather information; send anything that seems important back to Tony ASAP.”

Banner nods, getting up and shrugging on a corduroy blazer even more wrinkled than yesterday’s suit jacket. Odinson gives them all a sunny smile and a happy wave as they leave. Bucky can see why they’re teamed together: Banner’s the least threatening person he’s ever seen, all soft messy curls and shyness, and no one would ever even dare take any offense to Thor. He assumes they’re fairly effective, because appearances like that are usually deceiving when you’re working in law enforcement.

“Stark,” Coulson continues with a gesture; Tony’s face lights up again as he gives the usual dramatic flick of fingers. Two holos crop up, same information facing different directions, and Bucky sees Barton’s tablet flicker to life, data scrolling across the screen faster than either of them can track. Bucky has to admit it’s fascinating, even if it seems a bit... gratuitous.

“So we all know this tune,” Tony starts, “we have the expected overlap for people who happen to work together. Live near each other, shop at some of the same stores, occasionally meet up for dinner, all that happy stuff. Between the two incidents, we have some overlap that could be coincidental, because usually science-y people go to science-y things, but JARVIS is pulling those threads first to see whether it leads to anything. A couple conferences, a poster show at Hopkins - pretty cool stuff, actually, I may have to visit - unsub could have picked them out at either of those.”

Stark swipes the map off of the screen and taps a couple times to put up what looks like some weird kind of bubble cloud, multi-sectional legs and arms branching off of two distinct centers. Bucky squints, then shifts a bit closer to Barton’s tablet, trying to read. It’s like a spiderweb met an org chart and shat a string of bubbles, but it’s surprisingly easy to follow once he’s looking at the details.

“This is what FRIDAY found in the Baltimore database,” Stark says, taking a second to grin down at Steve. “I had to adjust the algorithm a couple times, but each branch is a subset of crimes that relate in some way to the two shootings. This line’s other crime that happened at the golf course or in the park, this one’s other long-distance attempts, these are all multiple gunshot wounds.” Each section of the map lights up as he gestures. “Unfortunately, with so many that _could_ be related, we’ll need to dig deeper to see if we can link the gun or bullets used, that kind of thing.”

“Ballistics are still processing,” Carter says, her accent even more notable this morning. She must not have slept much, Bucky thinks. “We do know that two different guns were used, which makes sense given the differences in the murders, but we should know what type and what kind of bullets by the end of the day for both cases.”

“Great,” Stark replies. “I need that to poke at some of these.”

“So,” Coulson says, “we’ll stick to the original plan. Rogers and Romanoff, take Johns Hopkins. Barnes and Barton, take the park. Send your readings back to Stark as you get them so that we can start the processing. We’ll meet back here for lunch.”

Bucky stands up at the obvious break, heading for the locker room. He needs a second or two before he has to go out and be a good host.

———-

“Don’t be stupid, Clint,” Natasha says quietly beside him. They’re standing at the door of headquarters, waiting for their respective hosts to change and gear up before heading out. It’s perfect fall weather outside, in Clint’s opinion: 67 degrees Fahrenheit, slight wind, low of 55 overnight. He’s left his jacket in the conference room, sticking with his tee, jeans, and boots. Nat has on one of her blazers over a red tee and jeans, also with boots. She looks incredible; Clint assumes he just looks like an idiot.

“What are you even talking about?” He asks, realizing he’s waited a bit too long. 

Natasha snorts. “I know you’ve been eyeing up Detectives Chocolate and Vanilla since we walked in that door,” she murmurs. 

“Are you fucking--” Clint begins, exasperated, but mainly because it’s true. The cases they usually work don’t usually have people who look like Rogers and Barnes, let alone Chief Carter, who quirks her lips in a way that could kill a man. He trails off, saying defensively, “Looking is our job, isn’t it? Watching behavior?”

“Watching behavior,” Natasha returns, “not watching the man’s ass.”

“You looked too,” Clint points out, and Natasha just smiles at him, all creamy, like she’s proven a point.

“Get bent,” Clint says, rolling his eyes at her. “I can do both, you know.” 

“Chocolate _and_ Vanilla? That’s ambitious.”

“You keep your sexy fantasies to yourself,” Clint says, haughty. “I will not be providing photographic evidence.”

They stand in silence, watching out the door. The wind picks up, blows a paper bag past. Natasha’s face falls sharply into something serious, and then she’s tugging at Clint’s arm, turning him to face her.

“I need you to be careful,” she says softly.

She looks him in the eyes, hard: with Tasha it’s always like she’s looking directly into Clint until her gaze hits the back of his skull. Then she gives him a soft nod. Clint knows the extreme violence and gore of this case is reminding her of things she’d rather forget, which is why she’s so unsettled. They see terrible things every day, but Nat’s been seeing terrible things longer than any of them, and there’s something about pieces of brain that unsettles Clint, too. As usual, he’s still a little bit honored that she shows him this side of her, the side that needs him. 

“Nat,” he says, his voice low. “This guy started with two long distance kills, then escalated to a triple homicide in close range. You don’t have to tell me how important it is that we catch him before he figures out what his next step should be.” He levels his gaze at her. Tasha’s his best friend in the world, the sister he never had, and even though he knows she’s been teasing, he also knows what she needs to hear now. She nods, again.

The thing is, Tasha also knows: Clint has to do _something_ or else all of the bad shit they see every day gets him stuck in his own head, remembering the shitty places he came from, the shitty things he did. So: he jokes. He flirts. He throws things at Stark; he annoys Coulson repetitively. He has drinking contests with Thor which he always loses. It’s his way of keeping sane, and Nat knows that as well.

He grins at her, needing to lighten the mood, and knowing she’ll get it. “Anything else I might - _observe_ \- is secondary to figuring out who this bastard is.” He accompanies the statement with waggling eyebrows just to make Nat laugh, and it works, which pleases him.

Someone coughs. “I hate to ruin the joke,” says an acerbic voice, and Clint turns to see Barnes and Rogers standing there. Barnes hasn’t said much this morning, and Clint can’t help but notice the low notes of his voice, the cadence of his words carrying some faint accent he can’t place.

“ _Bucky_ ,” says Rogers, and Barnes whirls to glare at him, which just makes Rogers laugh. “Sorry,” Rogers continues. “Natasha, right? We’re ready to go.” 

Nat smiles at Rogers, and then turns to Clint and says simply, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Yeah, be safe yourself,” Clint fires back, following Barnes, who is heading out the door without a word.

Barnes leads them to a patrol car and flops inside, every line of his body exuding irritation and exasperation of some sort. Clint decides not to take it personally. His guess is that Barnes is the kind of local cop that doesn’t like interference in his work, even when it’s necessary. It isn’t even profiling; he’s met enough of them over his time in the BAU that it’s pretty easy to recognize.

Barnes backs out of the spot and swings the car onto the road, his jaw set. He hadn’t exactly been friendly earlier, but he hadn’t been this grumpy, so Clint takes a minute or so to examine his face, looking for stress tells. Barnes is, undeniably, gorgeous - his eyes are light, a blend between blue and grey, making Clint want to look closer. He decides that the clenched jaw and slight wrinkle in the forehead are probably Barnes’ unconscious tells, and decides he needs to figure out how to smooth out that frustration, if he wants Barnes to work with him. Nat always thinks it’s cheating to profile their partners in the field, but Clint likes using every advantage he has.

So he waits a moment, and then asks casually, “Bucky?”

“Yeah?” The man answers, before he catches himself and frowns. The lines grow deeper. “What,” he says, almost a rude bark.

“Rogers called you Bucky,” Clint offers, “but if I’m remembering correctly, you were introduced as James.”

“Stupid nickname,” Barnes grunts.

“For James?” Clint asks, and now he’s enjoying this. Barnes seems determined to be grumpy and closed-off, and Clint always loves a challenge. “Never heard that one.”

Barnes glances over at him, a quick glare from those oddly light-colored eyes, and then turns back to the road. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he says, after a long silence. “My parents were assholes.” He pauses again, and then adds, “Stevie’s also an asshole.”

“ _Stevie,_ ” Clint snorts, and then says as a peace offering, “My first name is actually Clinton. I can sympathize.”

Barnes is silent, but Clint catches the way his lips quirk, as if he wanted to smile and resisted.

“My brother went by Barney,” he offers additionally, and this time he gets an actual snort of laughter from Barnes. A few seconds later it catches up with him and Clint looks away, turning his gaze out the window. It’s a rule: he doesn’t talk about Barney. Ever. Giving his name up doesn’t break the rule, but it was probably a stupid thing to say.

It’s a short drive from HQ to Druid Hill Park. Clint’s a country boy, but he’s spent most of his professional life jumping from city to city, so he has a special appreciation for park spaces intertwined with the inner workings of metropolis. This park is exceptionally charming; there’s a farmer’s market they walk past on the way in, carrying the last of the season’s onions and tomatoes, with arrays of squash in colorful, picturesque lines. “Remind me to look for tomatoes for Natasha,” he says out loud, and Barnes grunts, which could mean anything.

They wind their way through the park until they reach the entrance to the golf course; Clint notes that there’s a separate entrance and parking garage, but Barnes took him here on foot. Curious. He glances over; some of the tension has left the man’s face: his mouth seems softer, his eyes more open. Good decision, then.

The entrance to the clubhouse is blocked off, a sign reading _Temporarily Closed, Sorry!_ On the door. Barnes walks in anyway - he must have called ahead - and flashes badge at the man behind the desk. There’s a brief conversation Clint ignores, choosing instead to wander through the clubhouse. He gets more and more confused as he wanders: the photos are all athletic men in cargo shorts and tank tops, not elderly snob golfers in plaid and polo shirts. There are no golf clubs in sight. There is a picture of “Hole 18”, except that it isn’t a tiny hole in the ground with a flag. 

“Disc Golf,” Barnes says from behind him, and it takes everything Clint has to not startle at it. “Frisbee.”

Clint turns around; Barnes is smirking at him. It’s a good look on him; his eyes have a light to them, as if he’s aware he pulled one over on Clint, and the smirk alone does things to Clint’s stomach he doesn’t want to think about. 

He returns it with the best smirk _he_ can summon at the moment. “I see,” he says, and Barnes lets out a bark of laughter before closing up again. The smirk doesn’t vanish completely from his lips, and now that he isn’t clenching his jaw, Clint tries not to look at his mouth too much.

An employee appears, apparently for them, and leads them to a golf cart. Clint smiles to himself when Barnes takes the passenger seat in front; it allows Clint to sprawl out and take in the view. The course is mostly flat, dotted with trees. There’s some natural elevation at the edges, but not a lot. The place is empty, of course, but Clint’s mind is trained in visualization. He mentally places a couple people here and there - a couple, laughing over bad throws; a group of frat guys with a case of beer hidden in a duffle bag. The course is spread out enough that teams wouldn’t be on top of each other, but not so much that the holes aren’t visible to others.

It makes sense when the golf cart pulls into a small, almost secluded alcove. It’s blocked off with three concentric rings of crime tape, and there are tarps strung together, covering ground close to the hole. A single policeman is standing guard - well, sitting guard, and playing on his phone, but the thought’s what counts.

They disembark, and the golf cart pulls away and parks at a distance, probably for privacy.

“Juniper,” Barnes greets the man, who looks like he’s about to stand up. “Chill, man,” Barnes adds hastily, and the officer relaxes against the tree he’s been leaning against. “We got FBI,” he continues, with a gesture towards Clint, “and we’re here to check it out.”

Clint, always aware of the scolding he’ll get from Tasha for not minding his manners, approaches the officer and crouches down to shake his hand. “SSA Clint Barton from the BAU,” he says with a smile, and Officer Juniper looks up at him with a weird kind of admiration on his face.

He shakes Clint’s hand even as he says aloud, “Barnes, you get all the good ones.”

“Back to Candy Crush, Juniper,” Barnes says, glancing at Clint and away so quickly that Clint can’t even read his expression. “We’ve got it from here.”

They approach the crime scene and duck under the crime scene tape, pulling back the protective tarps. Clint takes a long time to read the ground, like he was taught, like Phil taught him to do even better. The places the bodies fell have been outlined in spray paint, and Clint takes his time orienting himself: this is north, this is east, this is the line of the sunset in Baltimore, this is the line of sight from the nearest hole on the course. He knows, somewhere beneath, that Barnes is watching him, partially curious but mostly grumpy, but it doesn’t matter. Clint walks the boundaries of the scene, twice, listening to the sounds: the traffic is louder in this corner, a walkway closer on this side. The wind today comes and goes, gusts canceling each other out. 

He comes back to himself to realize Barnes is scowling at the ground. “Sorry,” he says, genuinely meaning it, and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Let’s see, here. JARVIS, orient on this spot with GPS?” He turns the phone about, 360 degrees, and then scans the outlines of the bodies on the ground, and holds the mobile up on his palm, waiting for the response.

“Calibrating,” JARVIS says, and Barnes cocks an eyebrow towards the phone.

Before Clint can say anything, JARVIS announces, “Calibrated,” and Clint lays the phone down on the grass. There’s a minute while the processor orients itself, and then holograms crop up all around them: two tentatively outlined shapes, and six tracks that represent the bullets, and brief diagrams outlining the bodies’ fall from standing position to the spray-painted outlines in the grass.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Barnes says, stepping closer despite a tightness in his eyes that tells Clint he doesn’t really want to. The look on his face, however, is incredulous, lips parted and a hand outstretched, and Clint really doesn’t need to be reminded how absolutely fucking gorgeous Barnes’ face is at this point in time. Fuck.

“It’s totally understandable if you didn’t notice,” Clint says softly, “but Tony Stark, this morning - that’s Tony Stark, _The_ Stark of Stark Industries. I’m not gonna say the BAU got lucky, cause Stark’s been through some major _shit_ , but his technology has managed to change the way we work.” Barnes glances up, and the tension around his eyes has relaxed, and this look of - of curiosity, wanting to know more, wanting to understand, it’s suddenly too much for Clint: his stomach flips over, and he isn’t going to pretend he doesn’t know why, as he swallows and tries to push the feeling back to the corners of his mind. He isn’t here to flirt. Really. Shit. _Focus, dumbass._

“Barnes,” he says instead, holding out a hand. “Here. Look.”

Barnes doesn’t take his hand, but follows his lead until they’re standing next to the holographic figures projected upwards. “So this is JARVIS’ - okay, JARVIS is Tony’s first AI, not a real person, but Tony filled it with a bunch of - look, I’ll explain later, if you really want to know. This is JARVIS’ ninety-fifth percentile projection of where Baskaran and Mills were standing when they were shot. And these…”. He moves to the right, to gesture to the red lines. “This is his - its - sorry - this is the ninety-fifth percentile projection of the bullet trajectories, based on the projection of where the bodies were and how they fell, and the depth and angle of the bullet wounds.”

Barnes circles it, twice, before he says anything. “Holy shit,” he eventually comments, breathy and admiring. “I’m sorry, but this is fucking amazing.” He drops to a knee, gracefully, Clint admiring his form as he traces the trajectory lines with his fingertips. “I’ve never seen tech like this.” His glance up at Clint carries enough appreciation to knock Clint breathless, while still looking disgruntled; Clint wants to laugh. “Is this what you get with the FBI?”

Clint does laugh, then. “This is what you get from Tony Stark,” he replies, and grins at Barnes when he meets his eyes. “There’s a story there, I’ll tell you over a beer or two if we ever get the chance. For now, we’ve got a job to do.” He takes a brief moment to imagine Natasha being proud of him for such a casual invitation.

“It looks like,” Barnes begins, pointing at the glowing red spaces along the projection of Baskaran’s fall. “Is this -- are these the bullet holes? Cause that means this guy shot him in the head, then in the head again while he was falling, then again on the ground?”

“Detective Barnes,” JARVIS says from the ground. Barnes startles, and glares at Clint; Clint grins back, feeling like he owed Barnes that one after sneaking up on him in the clubhouse. “My calculations say that the probable order of the shots is as follows: First, the shot to Baskaran’s head,” and a small (1) indicator appears beside that red spot. “Then, the shot as he falls.” A (2) is placed there. “Then, the shot to Mills’ head, even with Mills moving at the time, and again as Mills falls. The third shot in each case was likely done after both bodies were dead and on the ground.” The six red markers have all been numbered.

“Holy fucking shit,” Barnes says under his breath. “This guy is _good._ ”

JARVIS adds, “Of course, this will need to be confirmed by the coroner’s report, but my projections are normally quite accurate.”

“No wonder you’re the super team,” Barnes grumbles, looking distinctly put out. “This is almost cheating.”

Clint just laughs. “Be nice to Tony, and he might hook you up after we solve this.”

“Is that all it takes?” Barnes is shaking his head. “Cause I can be fucking charming.”

Clint lets the obvious line slide by - again - and says instead, “The trouble is that Tony can be an asshole, or at best, hard to put up with. You’ve got your work cut out for you, charming or not.”

Barnes gives him a penetrating look, but stands up, and follows Clint. He traces the bullet trajectory lines with his own hands, echoing Barnes’ own motion, pacing slowly as they fade in the air to a single point: one point on a line projecting the most likely path to their shooter’s initial location. “See this?” He points out to Barnes, which is unnecessary, because Barnes has clearly picked up on it. “We just have to figure out the distance.”

They walk quietly, until Barnes pauses. “Here’s a potential one,” he offers, and Clint turns around to try to see what Barnes is seeing.

He’s right: they’re in the middle of an outcropping of rock, blocked by a tree that hides their location but doesn’t block line-of-sight to the two figures outlined below. Clint kneels, and extends a hand like it’s holding a gun; shakes his head, shifts, and his right arm is out in front of him as if holding his bow, his left tucked behind his ear, and he hears Barnes huff.

“Give me a damn second before you start making fun of me,” Clint says, amused, and closes an eye, sighting down the imaginary arrow and moving his stance slightly until he has confirmed that all six shots could have been made from this spot. “You’re right,” he admits, dropping his arms and turning to Barnes with a genuine smile. “This is the spot.”

Barnes gestures, sharply, and Clint moves so that Barnes can do the same thing. He watches, trying not to ogle too admirably, as Barnes shifts from spot to spot, sometimes lining up along his arm - always his right, Clint notes - and then Barnes slouches, down on one knee, and repeats the motions. “Feels like it,” he agrees.

“You’ve got a good eye,” Clint says absently, pulling out his second mobile - yes, Tony is that ridiculous - and connecting to the first. He sets the second one on the ground to make sure distances get measured and marked, and only then realizes that his comment might have sounded condescending. He glances up at Barnes, who’s scowling, but it’s no worse than his normal scowl.

Barnes glances down at the second mobile and actually rolls his eyes. He glances at Clint, though, and says, “it’s a military eye,” like an explanation. Wow, Barnes is offering information about himself. Clint must be winning everything today.

“Well, that’s good,” Clint says cheerfully. “Although LDSKs aren’t always military, you know. Sometimes it’s just a guy that’s good with a rifle. Experienced hunter, or gun fanatic, you know.” Barnes is getting that constipated look on his face again, so Clint asks him, “What would you estimate the distance is, here?”

Barnes doesn’t even need to look again. “About a hundred yards,” he says. “Give or take a couple.” 

Clint’s impressed. His read was similar, but he’s got advantages: his own keen eye, years of improving his own estimates with Tony’s equipment, plus the training of his sordid past. He eyes Barnes again, with appreciation, simply raising an eyebrow when the other man looks at him. God, that _face._ Clint wants to touch, very badly, and he’s afraid it’s written across his own forehead.

Barnes looks away sharply and scoffs, as if Clint’s some rookie probie on shift. “Right,” he drawls. “So what does the big bad FBI agent have to offer, other than--” he waves an arm towards the holograms. “Other than shiny toys.”

Clint pauses. There are a couple ways he can answer this, and he knows which way he’s gonna go - he’s wanted to impress Barnes ever since he caught the man’s eye across the scattered desks in the precinct - but he still wants to take a minute and make sure he’s being smart about it. _Don’t be stupid,_ Nat’s voice says in his head, although Clint isn’t being stupid: this is his _job._ And it always helps to bounce his thoughts off of another person. Two birds, one stone; shut _up_ , mental Natasha.

“Okay, Barnes,” he says, starting with his voice low and charming - or what he _hopes_ is charming. “Take a look at this spot. The sniper’s nest. Tell me what you think.”

Barnes’ mouth wrinkles, but he glances around, dutifully, before looking back down the sight line to the hologram targets. “Kinda hard to put myself in this guy’s head. Isn’t that your job?”

Clint chuckles, trying to stay warm and easy. He wants to _show_ Barnes, because this is the part of his job he loves, the fascinating part of pulling together pieces of someone to build the unsub from the inside out. “Don’t go there just yet. Tell me what _you_ think of the spot. From one sharpshooter to another.”

“Sharpshooter?” Barnes sounds startled, and Clint realizes he’s a fucking idiot who forgot to tell Barnes he’s done this too. Christ. He can be such a fucking dumbass sometimes. 

“Yep,” he says, somewhat sheepish.

He’s somewhat gratified, though, when Barnes deliberately and slowly looks him up and down. When he finally smirks, there’s a bit of heat in it - the first _real_ interest Barnes has shown him at all - and Clint feels it down the base of his spine. “Maybe you’re not so useless after all.”

Clint feels his mouth turn up in a shit-eating grin. “I’ve got skills,” he murmurs, “but you first.”

Barnes just shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as he turns away to look down the sight line again. “I think,” he starts, and then turns around to take in the strange little space in the rocks. “I think it’s supposed to feel - safe, maybe? Not easy for anyone to see you in here, except the guys who are about to be dead. It feels surrounded, a bit.”

Clint hums. “Supposed to?”

“Ain’t the kind of spot I’d pick, for sure.” Barnes shrugs. “It’s too closed in - no way to make a quick exit without it being super obvious that you were hiding in here. Not my style.”

“Alright, so where would you set up?” Clint’s actually curious.

Barnes taps his fingers on his lips, thinking. “I’d have to scout the area more, I dunno. Up a tree is stupid - same thing, no way to get out without attracting attention.”

Clint laughs at that. There’s a chime from the mobile on the ground, meaning that all of the data has been uploaded to Tony, who will certainly make some kind of projected model of everything down to the millimeter just to show off. He picks it up and shoves it into his pocket. “Alright, that’s all taken care of.”

Barnes cocks his head. “So what does it - what’s it telling _you_?” He sounds genuinely interested, for the first time, and _wow_ Clint wasn’t expecting the rush of those pale eyes, that intense gaze focused entirely on his own. Heat curls down his spine, unexpected and sharp. Fuck. He really does need to focus.

“So,” Clint begins as they walk back to the crime scene, keeping the discussion on the work because otherwise he’s gonna ramble and make an ass of himself. “Long-distance unsubs are usually impersonal: doing it as a job, or just because they feel the need to kill. But that doesn’t fit here, exactly. This guy knew their schedule, knew they were planning to come here, and just _happened_ to find a place on the course where they would be isolated enough that no one would see anything until it was too late? That’s meticulous planning. This guy is _definitely_ personal.”

He picks up the first mobile from the ground and flicks it back to standby. Barnes gives Juniper a sloppy salute as they head back to the cart. The employee’s long gone, so Barnes slides in behind the wheel. Clint lets him.

“That confirms that these weren’t just random targets of a rampaging unsub. This was a deliberate kill. He knew these guys, somehow - he _picked_ them.”

“What about the site?” Barnes asks.

Clint hums again. “It says this guy’s confident. He picked a place that felt safe, yeah, but he wasn’t at all concerned about getting in and out. He’s talented. Got some kind of training. A hundred yards doesn’t automatically mean military, but he’s got some skill to be able to make that shot. He likes control. Likes the feeling of watching these guys walk right into his trap, all cozy and tucked in. He’s arrogant, egocentric, likely a sociopath. Probably a white male, ages thirty to fifty, in good shape. Can’t have a nine-to-fiver, if he was scouting this place.” He shrugs. “This is just one piece of the puzzle. It’s when we link it all together that we can really get down into the details.”

Barnes’ gaze flicks over to Clint, quickly, and then turns back to the golf course. He opens his mouth, then huffs, as if he wanted to say something. Clint remains quiet, watching the park go by. Finally, Barnes says, his voice a low growl as if he doesn’t even want to speak, “Just so you know, I’m totally not impressed.”

Clint laughs out loud, unable to keep it in.

—————-

They’re back for lunch, and a quick debrief during; Bucky can tell Carter just gave Gabe the p-card, because lunch is make-your-own burrito bar from the joint around the corner, which is Gabe’s favorite place to get catering from. He sits next to Steve, as usual; Steve made a proper burrito which falls apart halfway through, making Bucky laugh into his plate of nachos and dip. Conversation is brief; they’re all caught up in the case, and Bucky is fucking starving.

“First crime scene,” Coulson says, eventually, when most of the plates are empty. He’s typing neatly into his laptop as he speaks, not even looking at the keys. Bucky watches, admiring the skill; he could barely type that fast with his two original hands while _looking_ at the keyboard.

Stark pulls up a holo of the golf course in the middle of the room. Everything’s labeled down to the numbers on each point of impact, and the trajectory lines trace back to the little stone outcropping they’d found yesterday.

To his surprise, Barton gives this portion of the debrief. “First shooting site was a somewhat secluded portion of a public disc golf course. Victims were standing here, and here; unsub shot from this location up here. It’s private, but no quick getaway, so this guy is meticulous and patient. He shot them both twice in the head, planting the third once they were on the ground. Not necessarily military, but this guy is good - look for SWAT or some other kind of training in his background.” He nods at Stark, who’s gleefully typing away.

Bucky’s watching Clint, no tension on the other man’s face, every movement easy and open. The fuck? This man fell over a stack of coffee cups. This man throws paper airplanes. This man is an idiot.

“Our analysis of the site-” and Bucky’s strangely appreciative of being included, even though he’s sure nothing he had offered was anything Barton didn’t know “- points to a white man, ages thirty to fifty, mostly likely in his forties. Past military or law enforcement training most likely, definitely will have multiple guns registered in his name, so start digging, JARVIS.”

“Of course, sir.”

“It’s Clint, JARVIS, sir is for weirdos and Tony,” he says, chuckling and moving on. “We’re looking for a sociopath. This guy is meticulous, precise, and the kill was very structured. He did research on them and their habits, so he’s somebody who can be very charming but otherwise unnoticeable. He can be patient, but based on this site, he very much enjoys the payoff. He saved the third shot until they were down - he’s trying to prove something to someone, or to himself. There’s some specific purpose to that third bullet.”

Bucky has been listening to this analysis, nodding as things click into place. It’s amazing how they can know this much about this asshole - the _unsub_ \- without having any kind of trace evidence or witnesses or leads. It sucks and it makes Bucky feel kind of stupid, but it’s also amazing. If he can ignore his own ego, he kinda likes the way Barton ties all these pieces together into something substantial.

Agent Romanoff picks up the lead as if they’ve done this thousands of times - they probably have - and goes through the same thing with the crime scene at Johns Hopkins. They narrow everything down, debating back and forth, until Stark has a set of parameters to work with and a list to make. Stark’s grin has turned fierce as hell as he talks into his ridiculous headset with fingers flying.

“Barton, Romanoff, go around to the victims’ homes and family members. See if there’s anything that isn’t showing up on the surface, any secrets, anything they know about the projects.” Coulson pauses, turns to Carter, who nods. 

“Barnes, pull one of the Howlies and go along as backup,” she says, standing at last. “Rogers, you’re with me, I want to look at a couple of those cases Stark pulled up, see if we can find any connection.”

Bucky pulls Gabe cause he figures he’s the least likely to be a little shit with two FBI agents, since he had his favorite lunch. They pile into the car - Jones driving, Bucky on point, and Barton and Romanoff in the back. Bucky’s giving Jones directions from his mobile while Barton and Romanoff are reviewing details about Baskaran’s wife and kids. The low hum of chatter in the car is actually kind of pleasant.

Bucky comes with them for the first interview, leaving Gabe in the car to play Candy Crush on his phone. (All of the Howling Commandos are obsessed with the game, and extremely competitive. Bucky’s not gonna get in the middle of that, even for a serial killer.) Inside he keeps his silence, and is treated to one of the most glorious tag-teams he’s ever seen; Romanoff and Barton are an absolute riot. They swap gender roles for added effect: Romanoff is cool and direct, while Barton turns into an endearing charmer, expressing sympathies and condolences, offering up what Bucky thinks are very sincere thoughts when it’s suitable. It’s as if they can read each other’s minds, the way they trade off so smoothly, and Bucky finds himself wondering whether they’re actually a couple, the way they work it. Probably not, he thinks: they seem too sensible to get involved with romance in the workplace. Plus, nobody would flirt like Barton does if they had someone as fascinating as Romanoff. And why does Bucky care anyway? He doesn’t.

The interview should make him uncomfortable and anxious - he’s never been good with this shit, and he’s surprised Carter sent him rather than Steve - but they handle it with a quiet professionalism that resides behind the game, allowing room for the grief and mourning as they work through their questions one by one. Baskaran’s family is still a bit in shock; no, he didn’t talk much about his work, there were confidentiality issues and besides, it was over their heads; no, he seemed happy about how things were going; yes, they’ve been friends with Mills and his husband for years, they got together all the time.

They’re back in the car, GPS directing Jones to the Mills’ house, and Bucky slowly becomes aware that he’s being watched. He turns around to see both pairs of eyes on him. His gaze, as usual, sticks on Barton; the man raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips, as if to say, _and?_

“You guys should sell tickets to that show,” Bucky says, a little more grumpy than he means to be. “Stevie and I do a great good-cop bad-cop, but you guys are something else.”

Romanoff rewards him with a brief softening of her lips, which Bucky assumes is a smile. “We’ve done this a few times.”

Barton says nothing, but he tracks his eyes over Bucky’s face and there’s something that looks like admiration, a pleasure at the compliment. 

Bucky turns back around. He needs to get a fucking hold of himself. Clint might be one of the most attractive people he’s ever seen in his life, and his - flirting? Interest? Playing around? - is hitting all of Bucky’s buttons. As is watching the guy flip back and forth between _smooth, confident agent_ and _tired walking tragedy_ , for some bizarre fucking reason. This is so dumb. He has a job to do, as do they, and he’s not some teenager who loses focus every time the hot guy winks at him. It’s embarrassing.

(Although he hears Steve’s voice in his head: _go for it, why not? You never put yourself out there, Buck. What harm could it do?_ Making him look like a fucking idiot, Stevie, that’s what. The truth is, Bucky’s not used to this; it’s been a long time since he’s felt anything like this, a rush of _want_ he has no control over. If he let himself go, he wouldn’t be able to rest until he had his hands and mouth all over Barton’s body, and he’s - he doesn’t know what to do about that. He’s only known the man for a day, for fuck’s sake.)

He glances back at the back seat, and of course, Barton fucking winks at him.

God damnit.

—————-

Dinner’s at a local bar, a quick break from all of the serious work before the end-of-day debrief and orders. Bucky knows it isn’t Carter’s usual style, but he appreciates her allowing the casual atmosphere for once, because he needs a beer more than he needs to breathe at this particular moment, and it’s really not like one beer is going to put everyone out of commission.

Bucky drops into the seat beside Steve and puts his head down directly on the table.

“Hey, Buck!” Steve looks pleased. He has a beer in front of him, and the remains of some kind of appetizer. “How was your trip?”

Bucky shakes his head, forehead rolling on the rough surface. He isn’t sure what’s going on. They’d gotten back around the same time, but Bucky had retreated to the lounge that still had their blankets and sat there for a while. He still feels like something happened to him today, more than just continued interaction with a sassy FBI agent, but he doesn’t know how to put it into any words.

Barton. Fucking SSA Barton.

“Was alright,” he says into the table. “You?”

“Fascinating,” Steve says, and Bucky sighs because now Stevie’s gonna go off on one of his rants, of course. “Natasha - Agent Romanoff - she’s incredible, the way she puts things together, and did you see their _tech?_ We pieced together where the shooter - uh, the unsub - was standing using freakin’ holograms, Buck. I mean - you saw, at lunch. We learned so much about that single scene in only half a day. Man, I wish they could be here all the time.”

Fuckin’ Stevie. Bucky lifts his head from the table, and his eyes immediately track the room for Barton. He’s up at the bar, chatting happily with Romanoff and Odinson, face relaxed to the point of goofiness and gesturing with a bottle of beer so eagerly it’s spilling onto his shirt. There’s a disconnect, Bucky realizes; maybe that’s why he’s so thrown. It’s impossible to reconcile this silly punk with the staggeringly confident competence he saw today. Listening to Barton pick apart the scene almost automatically had been uncomfortably attractive, and Bucky was pretty sure he’d caught the guy checking sight lines with an invisible bow in his hand. Who the fuck shoots a bow and arrows? He imagines Barton’s arms, flexed and tense, and swallows dry.

“The tech is something else,” Bucky admits to Steve, and stands up. “I need a beer, man, be right back.”

He finds a space at the bar behind Odinson, and signals the bartender for a glass of Sam Adams on draft. He keeps his gaze forward, deliberately, eyeing the posters on the wall behind the bar. 

His subtlety doesn’t work. Odinson laughs and lurches backwards, bumping Bucky’s arm off the bar - his right arm, thankfully - and turns around immediately.

“My friend! Detective Barnes!” He’s literally never met anyone as loud as Thor. “I apologize for my hasty gesture! I was unaware of your presence! You must join us!” Thor’s accent is milder than Carter’s really, but Bucky takes a bit of a second to process his phrasings and cadence, which are almost their own accent. Where the fuck did this guy come from, anyway? Who even talks like that? And the best part is - Odinson is _sincere;_ he’s not messing with them. Bucky almost wants to _like_ the guy.

Bucky glances up at his face: Odinson is actually sorry, apology written all over his face, in such a genuine manner that Bucky can’t decide whether to laugh at him or console him. He flicks his eyes back to Romanoff, who meets his gaze with a nod. Her eyes are smirking at him, somehow, as if she knows something he doesn’t. Probably a lot. 

Bucky finally looks back and meets Barton’s eyes. Something warm lands in his stomach as Barton grins at him, his mouth easy and cool. A man wearing a t-shirt covered in beer should not be this hot, Bucky thinks. Barton’s eyes are a dark green-blue, unusual, and he has fucking dimples in his square jaw that his glasses emphasize. It shouldn’t be allowed.

“Hey, partner,” Barton says then, adding a flirtatious drawl, and Bucky grunts and rolls his eyes in the hopes of not blushing.

“See, Clint, he’s figured you out already,” says Romanoff, such a faint smug smile on her lips as she sips her drink.

“Sit! Let us celebrate our first day of hunting down this despicable threat!” Odinson has shifted, revealing a stool between himself and Romanoff, gesturing broadly.

“Thanks, but nah,” Bucky says, gesturing towards Steve with his head. “I gotta make sure Stevie has somebody to sit with.”

His eyes catch Barton’s one last time, and while the man’s expression never changes, Bucky thinks they hold each other’s gaze a little too long, because there’s a flare of heat in those eyes right before he finally turns away. 

Steve’s happy to continue rambling: about the FBI’s technology, about how weird Tony Stark is in person, about how much he wants to stay on this case but knows Peggy’s gonna pull him to finish the armed robbery from last week, about how sharp Romanoff’s eyes were at the crime scene. Bucky sits, and drinks his beer, and sometimes snarks at Steve to make him laugh — and notices that, even though he tries to keep his eyes from drifting, every time he glances over at Barton, the other man’s looking back.

——————-

The end-of-day briefing goes more smoothly than expected. Clint and Natasha unload their day’s findings — mainly no suspicions of any of the family members, which matches with the background checks FRIDAY ran while they were out. Coulson points out a couple things, makes certain notes, but they can follow those up by phone tomorrow. Barnes is quiet; Clint had expected him to weigh in on something at least, but he seems happy to sit back and watch.

Bruce and Thor have had a hell of a day, it seems. Bruce is grinning, rambling out loud at Tony about some kind of serum, brain chemistry, nerve decay. When their turn to report comes around, Bruce is insistent that it’s the scientific research that ties the victims together, although he hasn’t quite found the connection yet. “It _has_ to be this,” Bruce insists, “it’s far more meaningful than a random encounter at the grocery store or some conference. It fits the profile. An intelligent guy with rampant control issues and a hankering to be better than everybody else. He’s probably looking for the fountain of youth or something.”

Coulson nods. “Work that line, Bruce. Once you have a theory, I want you and Tony chasing it down.” Clint loves seeing Bruce like this; the guy’s had a rough career, but when he finds something, he fixates on it. It’s absolutely adorable.

Thor names a couple people from the college and company that seemed suspicious to him, and Tony inputs the names to FRIDAY for additional background checks. It’s the usual: a coworker who seems jealous, a colleague looking for tenure, those kinds of things. Thor is great at spotting them, actually; his overall manner is so genial that no one realizes how closely he’s watching responses. 

Carter and Rogers have a couple cases flagged: a series of shootings using the same type of bullets as the handgun they’ve identified as the murder weapon at Johns Hopkins, and one case of a guy shot three times at a gas station. Stark plugs them into JARVIS, as usual, and then the collection of agents and officers in the room all look at each other in silence.

Coulson sighs. “There’s a lot here,” he says, “and we all need some time to process it and fit our pieces together. The suspect pool’s still too big. There’s something we’re missing.” He pinches the skin on the bridge of his nose, a gesture Clint knows he only uses when he’s frustrated. “Back to the hotel, everyone. Think through the results and get a good night’s sleep. I need all of you at your best tomorrow.”

“I’m instituting the same order,” Carter says, glancing at Rogers and Barnes. “You two go home and sleep in your own beds tonight. I need you fresher than you get sleeping on those couches.”

Cint doesn’t want to go back to the hotel. He doesn’t want to go to bed. He’s restless, anxious, because even with all this information they still don’t have a suspect, still don’t have a name. He needs to go - do something, dance it out, have a drink, watch a terrible movie - he hates this interim period while they’re still playing with all the variables and narrowing in. He wants it to be narrower. Otherwise he feels guilty going to bed when the guy could still be out there, watching somebody else through a sniper sight.

He sits down next to Barnes as the room starts to fill with casual chatter - no one eager to leave with so much unsolved - and he means to ask _are you hungry_ or _wanna go for a drink_ but instead what comes out is, “What do you think of all this?”

“Hmm?” 

"You’ve been quiet,” Clint says, because he’s been watching. He would never admit it to Tasha, but he’s been watching Barnes all day, and he can’t quite figure out why: obviously the man is gorgeous and Clint would watch him read the goddamn phone book for nothing more than the aesthetic, but there’s something about the way he’s been looking at Clint that draws him in. Clint knows Barnes has been watching him back all day; he remembers catching the edges of that pale gaze more than once. He wants to pick apart Officer Bucky Barnes: he wants to _profile_ him, find what makes him tick, learn things about him that few other people know. He can’t help it.

Barnes chuckles. “Isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” He shrugs. With the general level of conversation in the room, their voices are low, and Clint leans in a bit more than necessary rather than adjusting his aids.

“That’s not true,” he says. “You know the city, you’ve worked murders. You know guns. Tell me: what’s your gut saying?”

Barnes rubs a hand over his mouth, reddening his lips. “Sometimes a fresh eye sees something different,” Clint offers, and Barnes finally looks at him. Clint could stare at this guy’s eyes forever; they’re blue-grey in this light, pale, and they’re fixed on him sharp like the edge of a knife.

“Stark and Dr. Banner seem convinced that it’s the research connecting the victims,” he says slowly. Clint opens a hand in his direction, hearing the _but_ in his words. “I’m not saying that’s wrong,” Bucky continues. “It makes sense. But if it’s about research, then why the murders? Why snipe people on a fucking frisbee course? If this guy _wants_ the research there are a lot of easier ways to get it.”

Clint thinks for a moment, and then laughs, somewhat self-deprecating, opening the point up for conversation. “That’s a fair point, Barnes. Let’s walk through it a bit. Why would you kill the scientist if you could get the work by threatening him? Most people I know wouldn’t take a bullet for their ideas.”

“Well, that’s an easy one,” Barnes says, and leans in closer to Clint. “Either it’s something worth dying for, in which case, what the fuck, or there’s some other reason to kill them rather than just, I don’t know, shoot a leg or something.”

Clint can’t help it; Barnes’ face is lighting up, and he keeps licking or biting his lip. It’s adorable, and it’s making Clint want to chase that tongue with his own every fucking time. He scoots the chair so that their legs are just brushing. He wants to be _the_ absolute focus of that mind, those eyes. For a second they’re just staring at each other, and Clint doesn’t think he’s making up the interest in Bucky’s eyes: his pupils widening, whole gaze darkening.

Clint smirks at him, and then diverts: he needs to continue this conversation. “Killing them just means the research stops there,” he offers. “If the guy wants what they’re working on, hell, he could have kidnapped them, or blackmailed, or something.”

“So why shoot them three times in the fucking head?” Barnes murmurs. His arm brushes against Clint’s as he reaches up to tuck dark hair behind his ear. It’s fallen out of the bun; he looks messy and touchable. It’s almost like there are two conversations: the one they’re talking about, and the conversation their body language is having. 

Clint gestures up at the messy bun. “How long is it, anyway?”

Barnes smirks, then, his face lighting up with it, and he combs the other stray strands back with his fingers. “Why,” he asks, “you like it?”

“I’m… curious,” Clint purrs, unable to help himself. Bucky’s eyes go darker, softer, and he leans in closer, almost at Clint’s ear.

“I’ll show you some other time,” he murmurs, and bites his lip again in a way Clint thinks might just be automatic but _fuck_ it’s going straight to his dick.

“I’d like to see,” Clint says, his voice hoarse and choking because god forbid him ever being smooth in this kind of situation. Before Barnes can move away, he continues: “Back to your question. Why shoot them three times in the head?”

Barnes’ eyebrows lift, as if to say, _you’re gonna do this now?_ , but he doesn’t move at all. Their knees are touching under the table and Barnes’ body is turned to Clint’s, open if not offering. “Okay,” he replies, “let’s play,” and Clint hears it in a few different ways. “Three times in the head is just weird, so let that go. But why kill them? They… they saw him, and he had to kill them so they didn’t come turn him in?”

“That works with the Hopkins shooting,” Clint points out, “but what about the sniper kill?”

“They could have seen his face some other time,” Barnes argues, smiling at the same time: he’s enjoying this. “It’s still possible.”

Clint hums. “I wonder if the change in MO was just a forensic countermeasure, or if there’s a reason why he’s killing people in different ways.”

“I still want to know why he’s killing them at all.” Barnes very clearly drops his gaze to Clint’s mouth, and then looks back up. “Isn’t that your job to figure out?” It’s a challenge and an invitation all in one.

Clint swallows. “We don’t mind help,” he murmurs, and there’s a long tense second between them where Clint is _sure_ he’s going to lean forward and take that mouth, bury his hands in that hair, and Barnes is going to open up and let him—

“Buck,” Rogers says from the doorway. “You coming?”

Bucky exhales, a whispered _Fuck_ meant only for Clint’s ears; Clint hears actual disappointment in it, but a hint of a promise. He looks up at Clint through those ridiculously long lashes for a second, and then pulls away.

“Yeah, Stevie,” he says, picking up his briefcase, “let’s go home.”

The room is empty except for Clint Barton, sitting back in his chair, wondering, with his dick unfortunately hard in his jeans.


	4. Tuesday

On Tuesday, Bucky’s up before Steve. It’s so unusual that he stands there in the kitchen for a second, staring at the empty coffee pot, while the clock on the microwave sits at 6:14 AM. He’s never up this early. 

It’s his stomach; there’s something rolling in his gut, an anxiety that’s actually excitement, anticipation. It’s all focused around Clint Fucking Barton and Bucky hates it, hates it a lot, except for the part where he thinks the guy might really be into him and he could maybe get a date and some hot sex from an FBI agent if they can solve this case soon enough. How is this his life? A part of him is professionally embarrassed while the rest of him can’t stop wondering what Barton’s shoulders taste like, what he looks like on his knees.

Fuck. Bucky decides to get in the shower. Steve wakes up every day at 6:30 on the nose and he’ll be surprised when he can’t roll out of bed into the bathroom like he usually does. Ha. If he’s gonna be awake anyway, may as well fuck with Stevie a bit.

The warm water is soothing, and he soaps up slowly, eyes mostly closed, trying to just think about the case and the day ahead: but even his body knows the shower is a pretense. He’s on edge this morning, already half-hard, and he breathes deep, hands over his face. It feels stupid, but he needs to admit he’s on edge, get over it and get it over with, and maybe he’ll feel more settled once he’s come.

His hand is already on his cock, moving slowly as he hardens the rest of the way, then tighter, harder, but still slow. A part of his brain gives a token protest that Bucky immediately disregards, cause he can’t get fucking Barton out of his mind, so he might as well try this way. He thinks of Barton’s jaw, licking down the stubble to suck a bruise into that place where shoulder meets neck; he thinks of Barton’s fucking eyes, so observant - like a hawk - watching, always watching. He thinks of Barton watching _him, now,_ and grunts, his hand speeding up.

He’s imagining Clint’s hands now, around him, his body behind him, pressing him into this wet wall: Clint’s hands look rough, knobby knuckles and gun calluses, and Bucky wants them on his body. He imagines one on his cock as he works it, warm rush starting to spread from his balls through his stomach, up his spine. He’s jerking hard now, panting into the water, _fuck._ He thinks of peeling Barton out of that damn t-shirt, thinks of the planes of muscle he knows are there, biting bruises into the man’s biceps. He thinks of Barton holding him down with those arms, fucking him, the noise he’d make as their mouths moved together—

Bucky comes with another soft grunt, spilling over his hand and into the rush of the water. It feels like his limbs are shaking with the force of it. He leans to the side, against the wall, tipping his head back to meet the tile. _Fuck._

He isn’t sure that helped at all.

——

Clint’s Tuesday morning is much better than the previous one. He gets out of bed with only a few pillows-to-the-ass from Nat, showers, realizes that Natasha must have bribed room service because there’s a _pile_ of the single-serve coffees, makes five of them, drinks four and gives one to Natasha. He usually wants to limit the number of times he appears before local law enforcement uncaffeinated, because it sort of undermines the BAU’s image. He’s not going to pretend he’s anything but stupid before his brain wakes up.

The case has been spinning in his mind all night, weird-ass dreams about lying on the ground next to Barnes, sighting down a sniper rifle, while the victims all sat in Druid Hill Park and ate sandwiches. Clint’s learned to ignore his dreams, since so many of them bring up shit he’d rather forget, so he’s more amused than anything. Maybe Bucky would find it funny - or maybe he’d find it weird that Clint had dreamt about him.

He waits for Tasha this morning, since they have all the coffee he could ever want. She has another slick little blazer on over a tank top. He opts for - surprise - another t-shirt and his tighter jeans, since he wore the other pair yesterday. It’s his black t-shirt and he knows this combination does great things for his ass, which won’t hurt his chances at all if Barnes is interested in continuing their conversation from yesterday.

It’s been a while since he’s had a morning feel this good; there’s something going to happen today, something big. He’s hopeful.

Once they get to the police HQ, he and Nat hit the continental breakfast that’s set up; she takes her usual oatmeal, doctoring it up with whatever weird concoction she wants today, and Clint focuses on making a giant breakfast sandwich out of a croissant, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Oh, and the shredded cheese he finds hidden behind the eggs, perfect. It’s going to be terrible and messy to eat but nothing beats a good breakfast sandwich in the morning.

They eat in silence. Around 7:30, Rogers and Barnes come in. Rogers shoots them a wave, says, “Hey guys.” Barnes nods at them, although there’s a bit of a blush on his face when he meets Clint’s eyes, a bit of heat in his gaze. Well.

“Clint,” Nat says, drawing his attention back. Clint knows how to read her face: she’s curious, but also wary. But mostly curious.

“Nothing’s happening,” he says, waving the hand that has the sandwich in it, shredded cheese falling everywhere. Shit. He takes another bite and tries to gather it in a little pile with his empty hand.

Nat smirks. “Yet,” she says, one eyebrow up, and she knows him as well as he knows her, so he just sighs.

“Not what we’re here for,” he points out, and doesn’t finish the sentence with _but I’d hit that like a truck given half the chance,_ cause it kind of doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“But you always have something,” Nat says, a little wistfully. Clint deals with their cases by distracting himself; Nat compartmentalizes, she’s the best at it, but each way has its rough spots as well as benefits. Clint’s regrets all happen immediately; Nat’s hit her after everything is over.

Clint finishes the sandwich, slurps up what might be the sixth or seventh cup of coffee, and grins. “Let’s get to work,” he says.

The conference room is buzzing with talk. Bruce and Tony are standing across the table from each other, flicking screens back and forth, a spray of unknown molecules growing between them in a rainbow of different colors. Barnes and Rogers are talking with Chief Carter, mostly reviewing a set of file folders sitting on the table. In the middle of the room, Coulson and Thor are staring into the holo screen, flicking through pictures of the scenes, of the damage, of the dead.

“Stark last,” Natasha murmurs, and Clint snorts. Nat never wants to deal with Tony in the mornings. They’ll start somewhere else, while Tony drinks his disgusting forty-two cups of coffee in relative peace.

They approach Coulson, who actually looks like he might have slept. “Anything new, agents?”

Tasha murmurs something and gestures to Clint - he has no idea how she knew he was going to speak up - and he says, “Nothing new, just a question I can’t answer yet.”

“Shoot,” Coulson says, as Thor announces, “Let us put our minds together and find a resolution!”

“Right,” Clint says, flashing Thor a snap and a finger-gun, cause he’s like that, and because it always makes Thor laugh. “Barnes said this yesterday and I can’t get it out of my mind: Why murder?”

“Hmm?” Coulson’s forehead wrinkles.

“If this is about the research,” Clint continues, “why kill the researchers? There are plenty of non-lethal ways to get your hands on that work if you’re determined. Why go to the trouble?”

Nat breathes in sharply. “You’re right. I think Stark and Banner are right about their work being the thing that connects them together - that should help us identify and protect other potential vics - but why bother to kill them?”

“Means, motive, and opportunity,” Coulson muses. “Obviously had the means and the opportunity. What’s the motive, if it isn’t the research itself?”

“Perhaps it is one of our baser emotions,” Thor proclaims. “Anger, jealousy, rage?”

“Rage doesn’t quite fit,” Natasha says slowly. “I could see it in the Hopkins shooting, three bullets to the head, but — sniper kills are usually cold, methodical. This guy isn’t lost in some angry fit.”

“But anger or jealousy can be motivators even in very controlled killers,” Clint adds. “Especially jealousy. That can narrow down to a very specific focus in the right environment.”

“So what’s the right environment?” Coulson asks. “What would this guy be jealous about?”

There’s a pause as they all think, and then Thor says: “I am leading myself back to the base emotions - the simple cause. He’s jealous of their work.”

“Or jealous that they have the knowledge and he doesn’t,” Natasha says.

“Kind of the same thing, isn’t it?” Clint leans up against the table, bracing his arms. He glances to his left to see if anyone else is listening in; Barnes and Rogers are sitting down now, flipping through papers and occasionally elbowing each other to point something out. Carter is on the phone behind them. Clint watches them for a second - are they together? He’d gotten the impression they were roommates, but their camaraderie is familiar, like—

Tasha elbows him, and Clint realizes why it’s familiar. It’s like his relationship with Tasha. That makes sense. Not that it matters.

Even Coulson looks faintly amused when Clint turns back to the conversation. “I asked: So who would be jealous of another’s research work? Or of them having whatever the result of that research work is?”

“I think much of it depends on the work itself,” Thor booms. “Friends Bruce and Tony will know soon what it is about the science that this man might covet.”

Clint waves them away when they look up at Thor’s pronouncement. Sometimes, Thor is just loud. “Generally,” Clint replies. “A competing company, a rival scientist, someone who wants the work for themselves. Did they steal someone’s idea? That would definitely be jealousy in that case.”

They toss the idea around for a while in all of its incarnations, slowly evolving a detailed profile of a man who works in some sort of science or technology field, but has some executive or management job with flexible hours, who might want to get his hands on whatever’s valuable in the research. Clint isn’t quite buying it, since the two groups of victims are probably working on completely different things, but he doesn’t know fuck-all about any in-depth chemistry or science of any kind. The two cases are just _so_ different.

The room is buzzing. There’s an energy to it, sliding pieces together. Rogers has floated over to Tony and Bruce, and they’re now doing something with a holo of the Hopkins scene that looks rather obscene from this angle. Barnes is in deep conversation with Carter, tapping one of the folders and gesturing to his notes. He glances up, like he feels Clint’s gaze, and blushes as he turns back to Carter. It’s incredibly pretty across his cheekbones. Clint grins and winks at him, and turns back to his discussion.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when there’s a knock on the door. The room shuts down, instantly, and in the silence there’s another knock and Clint hears radios crackle:

_“HQ, come in, HQ, we have two bodies down at the Inner Harbor, suspect unknown, come in, HQ!”_

Clint’s stomach falls. He feels like he’s spinning for a second. Two more bodies - _two?_ And they’ve all been standing here, just talking— 

“Come on in, Dum-Dum,” Rogers chokes out, like his throat is tight.

A few long seconds later, the door opens and two of Carter’s general officers walk in.

“Two bodies,” says the one wearing the bowler hat. “One male, one female. Sniper shots, both of them, three to the head.”

“Location?” Rogers barks, obviously upset.

“Inner Harbor,” says the other one, confirming the radio announcement, with a distinct accent. French? “Just got the call; somewhere near the _Constellation_. That’s a boat,” he offers to the BAU team in general, accompanying it with a somewhat awkward wave.

Fuck. It happens more often than not, honestly, but Clint hates when they’re on the job and the unsub just keeps killing. It always makes him feel incompetent, too stupid, too slow. He reaches out and grabs Natasha’s hand, not caring who sees. She’s tensed, next to him; she hates it too, but it’s because it always brings them additional useful information, and she hates that somebody had to die for them to get enough clues to put the puzzle together. She hates that she sometimes feels grateful. Clint can understand.

Coulson is pinching his nose. Clint glances up at Carter; she’s staring at the wall, and if eyes were allowed to shoot fire, this room would be burning by now. In the background, he hears Rogers and Barnes on their radios.

“Barton, you’re the expert,” Coulson says eventually. “Get down there, get pictures to us _now,_ and figure out where the fuck the sniper’s nest was this time. Get me _something._ ”

“Sir,” Clint says automatically, and then just as automatically: “I’m taking Barnes.” He didn’t even meant to say it. And it wasn’t about his eyes or face - Clint’s serious now, and he means it.

Coulson’s eyebrow quirks, and Clint glances over at Carter, avoiding Barnes’ eyes for now. “He knows his sniper shit,” Clint offers. “He helped out on the last crime scene. I’d like his eye on this one too.”

“Fine,” Coulson says. “Odinson, you’re with them. Get everything you can from witnesses while they set up JARVIS to track trajectory. Stark, get it hot, _now.”_

“What the hell time is it anyway?” Tony says, and JARVIS answers, “Ten-forty-six, sir.”

“As soon as you have ID, call it in,” Carter says. She’s been on her radio too, clipped British accent conveying anger. “We need to _catch up._ ”

“Yes’m,” Barnes says, all one word, collecting his folders and stuffing them into the messenger bag he has today and heading over to talk to the officer with the bowler hat.

Barely ten minutes later, Clint and Barnes settle into the back of a car, the officer with the hat driving and Thor’s huge frame and long legs in the passenger seat. Clint’s watching Barnes, who keeps shifting as if he’s anxious or uncomfortable: typical sign of stress, and guilt, and worry. His eyes are tense again. Clint’s sure his own body language isn’t helping, so he makes a conscious effort to relax, stretch out his limbs, tilt his head back.

The gesture captures Barnes’ attention. Clint watches as Barnes’ eyes flick left, tracking up the long line of Clint’s body, the expanse of his throat, until their eyes meet. That’s a long few seconds. Clint rolls his head over, to look Barnes straight on in the face, idly tracking those pale eyes, long lashes, cheekbones. 

And then he sighs, because two more people are fucking dead, and whatever silly little thing they were playing with between the two of them has to go out, like blowing out the flame of a candle. As he sighs, Barnes laughs once, a single gust of air, and shrugs his shoulders as if he knows what Clint’s thinking.

It feels good, for an instant, that Barnes was equally aware of the spark of potential; that Clint wasn’t making it all up in his head, that Bucky’s as interested as he is. But they can’t afford any more distractions, because this part fucking sucks, and they need to figure out how to get a bead on this guy before more people get their faces blown off.

Barnes starts up easy conversation with Thor, as the one in the bowler hat weaves through traffic like an absolute demon. This one could give Nat a run for her money in dirty driving. Clint has already noted that all of the drivers in Baltimore are absolute dicks. As are the pedestrians. And the buses, shit, the buses. Baltimore transportation seems to be made up of an entire bag of penises.

They get to the Inner Harbor, and Bowler Hat swings them past the crowds and right up to the crime scene tape. Clint recognizes a few faces from the first day - some of these are Carter’s officers. He looks at Barnes and says, “Remember, no comment.”

Barnes snorts. “As if I want to talk to these fuckers anyway.”

They exit the car. The air is full of the calls of tourists, observers, the media. _Is this the work of the Red Skull? What can you tell us about the investigation? Do you have any leads? Is it true that Red Skull was in the Marines?_

Clint ignores them all from long practice, but he does pick up his phone and ring Coulson once they’re past the safe barrier of the tape. 

“Coulson.” It’s the only reply.

“Look, it’s a mess down here with press and nosy fucks,” Clint says succinctly. “You should think about sending Tony down here to do some damage control. Bruce knows JARVIS well enough, or tag in Shuri and Skye from home base. They’re all shouting about Red Skull and it’s only going to wind him up more.”

“I’ll take a look,” Phil says. “Coulson out.”

Thor stops at the nearest clump of cops, standing around the back of an ambulance where two women are huddling together, wearing shock blankets. Witnesses? That can only be a good thing. Clint nods at Thor, who pulls out his mobile to start recording the conversation, and then catches up to Barnes, who’s looking down at the first body, covered by the traditional tac sheet. 

“Ready?” Barnes asks. His eyes meet Clint’s, and Clint’s somewhat taken aback, because whatever they’ve been flirting with over the last two days has transmuted itself into some kind of _bond,_ a sort of trust, a camaraderie Clint’s really only ever gotten from his own team. Barnes is on his side, and it’s obviously written in his face, along with a determination: they _are_ gonna catch this fucker.

“Let’s see,” Clint says, and he can’t smile at Bucky over a dead body but he does give him a small nod, confirmation that he agrees, that he’s with Barnes now and they’re going to solve this.

First vic is a middle-aged woman, from what’s left of her face. Clint stares hard until his brain starts to filter out the blood and the brains and the bits of skullbone; eventually his eyes catch it: two shots that came from the same direction, and a third that might have come after she’d already fallen. “Look,” he says gently to Barnes, pointing it out, and Barnes hums.

“Might be same MO as before, then.”

Clint gently puts the sheet back over her face and they head to the next vic. Male, middle-aged, same condition. 

“Thor,” he calls, and the large man’s head turns immediately towards him. Clint signals, and Thor jogs over, as Barnes puts the sheet back over what’s left of the man’s face. 

“You need to get those people out of there, or at least block off so they can’t see. I need to take scans for JARVIS but I’m not letting those vultures stare at the dead bodies.” His voice is angry, angrier than Clint meant, and Barnes actually puts his hand on Clint’s upper arm, squeezing once. It’s surprisingly calming; Clint breathes deep.

“Our tarps are in the back of the vehicle,” Thor says. “I shall get the officer Dugan and set them up.”

While Thor and Dugan get to work, Clint stands next to Barnes, looking out at the Inner Harbor with the bodies at the back, scanning the surroundings. Their shoulders brush occasionally, and Clint won’t lie, it’s helping, it’s _grounding_ him. He’s full of frustration and anger, spiraling up from that dark place inside him that always tells him he isn’t enough, he isn’t good enough, he’ll never be anything — it chokes in Clint’s throat, to his surprise, and Barnes puts his hand on Clint’s arm again.

“This fucker is _done,_ ” Barnes murmurs, and Clint hears the same rage in Barnes’ voice that he’s feeling in his stomach. He puts his other hand on Barnes’, squeezes once, and then turns back around to watch Thor finish setting up the tarps and leading people away. Thor makes a great backup PR person, until Tony shows up, because he’s loud and charming and personable and it’s only afterwards that they realize he’s been feeding the press nothing but platitudes and meaningless words because he’s really a clever little shit.

He and Barnes work in tandem, silently, Barnes somehow knowing exactly what he needs. They uncover the woman completely, and Clint takes his time scanning her in to JARVIS’ memory: pointing out the bullet holes, the angle of the blood spray, talking softly to the machine as he tries to catch every detail. He knows this is uploading to Tony in realtime, so he includes everything he can think of. They cover her up and move on to the man. Barnes is a steady support at his side, solid and quiet, always there for Clint to take his bearings from. It feels like working with Nat the way it’s so easy. JARVIS scans the second man, and then Clint sets the mobile down on the ground next to the second body - now covered again - and they wait.

It isn’t a fast program, running through every possible iteration of angle and calculating probability. They had the advantage last time, since the site had already been examined; now, they’re just going to have to wait. Clint signals to Thor to let him know they’re done for now, but Thor just nods and gestures for Dugan to keep the tarp curtains up for now. Good man.

“So,” Barnes says, breaking the silence. They’re both sat on a stair leading down into the Inner Harbor, towards the USS Constellation, open for tours, where the vics were apparently going this morning before the unsub killed them both. “What’s your guess?” When Clint doesn’t answer immediately, Barnes leans in and nudges him with his shoulder. “Hey,” he says gently. “Clint. Don’t get lost on me. What’s your guess?”

It’s the use of his real name that grounds him again, better than anything. Clint looks around the Inner Harbor. “I don’t know the area,” he begins, “but just looking at height, I’d pick somewhere either that way” - he gestures - “or this way.”

Barnes chuckles a little bit. “So _that way_ is the fucking National Aquarium, and while it’s possible, it would take one sneaky motherfucker to get to the top of the Aquarium with a rifle without being noticed.” He hums in thought, and then extends Clint’s gesture a little bit. “Or next door,” he says, pointing to a taller building nearby. “Although it’s probably just as hard - that’s the, uh, 9/11 memorial. I’m not sure which is worse.”

Clint laughs and leans a little into Barnes’ side. Barnes nudges him back, a friendly move.

“As for _this way,_ ” Barnes continues, “you wanna talk across the harbor, that’s a hell of a shot with no elevation, although it’s technically possible. Would limit the suspect pool, cause only someone with serious training could make that shot flat across water.” He pauses, turns a quarter of the way towards Clint and gives him a small smile. “Even I’d have trouble with that one.”

“Best shot?” Clint asks. It’s safe, it’s nothing having to do with the two people who lost their lives because Clint wasn’t faster or smarter—

“Best shot is hard,” Barnes muses, leaning into Clint’s side again; he’s noticed, Clint’s drifting, and he’s trying to bring Clint’s attention back to the here and now. “But I’m 95% at 400 yards, y’know.”

Clint chuckles. “That’s pretty good, Barnes. I’m also 95% at 400 yards.” He pauses, and then turns his head towards Barnes, just a little bit. “With a bow and arrow, of course.”

“Fuck you,” Barnes says automatically. “You are not.” Clint just laughs again, and Barnes says, “A fucking bow and arrow. Who the fuck are you anyway?”

Clint laughs harder, spirits momentarily buoyed. “I have an ...interesting background, Barnes. Not the usual path to the FBI.”

“I fuckin’ bet,” Barnes says, and then, quietly: “It’s Bucky.”

Clint turns the whole way this time, blinking into his eyes. “Hmm?”

Barnes’ face is dead serious, his brow lined in determination but his mouth still smiling at Clint. “Anyone stands over a dead body with me calculating sight-lines gets to call me Bucky,” he says, so softly.

“Right,” Clint says, a genuine smile breaking across his face, even if it’s in pieces. “Bucky. Thanks.”

————-

Eventually they land back at HQ, and Bucky releases Barton - Clint - back into Agent Romanoff’s hands. He’s been worried about Barton, who seems to keep drifting away into some really nasty headspace: Bucky knows what that’s like. He’s done it enough times in his years as a cop to recognize it. Clint’s only half-there when Romanoff takes him in her arms, tugs him away to the side of the room and starts talking to him, low and fast.

Bucky himself heads straight to Carter, relaying all the information he can after handing Barton’s mobile over to Stark, who is drinking coffee out of a Big Gulp and practically frothing at the mouth. Bucky can’t even be irritated anymore; Stark and his tech are gonna be a big part of this, and he can put up with whatever weird shit Stark needs to do if the computers can get them a _lead._

Steve’s over with Dr. Banner, reviewing what looks like identification information from the two bodies; next to Banner, Odinson is on the phone, demanding files from someone on the line, his genial manner completely gone. Coulson’s on the phone, too, rattling off a series of orders meant for someone back at Quantico. The room’s a frenzy, and Bucky isn’t sure where he can be the most helpful. 

They’ve IDed the victims: Maria Westerson and Aaron DeMacley, both employees of a consulting firm working with Picket Medical on some big top-secret project protected by, according to Stark, a dozen NDAs and a grenade launcher.

He ends up being tugged over to a corner by Romanoff, who rolls her eyes and tells him to call her Natasha right after bringing Stark over to pick through the data. Bucky stands between Natasha and Clint and answers Stark’s questions about the neighborhood, while he inputs probabilities into JARVIS and spits out holographic calculations that they have to rate on a scale from no to likely. It takes hours, and Bucky’s brain hurts by the time Carter calls for a break.

“We’ve ordered Chinese,” she announces over the dying din, accent precise. “No one goes home tonight, but we will all need to rest. Let Detectives Barnes and Rogers know if you want a brief nap and they’ll show you to the best couches.” Her lips, still crisply red after all these hours, turn grimly up at the corners. “We are here for the long run, ladies and gentlemen.”

Dinner arrives. Bucky watches Natasha pull Clint away to eat, and then does the same to Stevie, who looks like he’s gonna fight the next thing that comes through the door; Bucky shovels egg rolls into Steve’s mouth until the panic of rage in his eyes fades away. At some point he meets Romanoff’s eyes and she gives him a small smile and rolls her eyes, gesturing at Clint, who looks ready to fall asleep on the table. So does Steve, and Bucky gives her a lazy two-finger salute across the room. As for himself, he’s claimed the lo mein, and there’s nobody here that’s gonna take it from him.

Bucky leaves Stevie ruminating over a fortune cookie, and just then realizes that the Howling Commandos are here too, way past their shift. They all have files on their desks, things to review, and fucking Falsworth is sitting next to Thor Odinson, pawing through screens on Thor’s tablet and pointing out tips about the city. 

They continue on this way, far into the night.

Around 2200 Stark yells, “Yes!” and makes grabby-hands towards Banner. Banner runs over to join him, eyes flicking wildly across the screen. “This is it,” he says, “Tony, this is _it.”_

Tony hoots, and then yells, “Who’s the fuckin’ bomb,” and to Bucky’s never ending amusement Stevie yells, “ _Language,_ ” only realizing a second after that the language doesn’t fuckin’ matter, Steve’s said worse himself, and Bucky breaks down in anxious laughter as everyone else looks at them and kind of half-chuckles. Steve sits down and covers his face with both hands, saying “ _Fuck_ ” really loudly, and the whole room loses it. Stevie’s actually laughing too, while Stark is pointing multiple fingers at him and _hooting_ , and Bucky laughs harder because it’s _so stupid_ but they all needed this. 

They all gather around the center, where Stark and Banner are projecting holograms, arguing with each other in long syllables and chemical abbreviations. Clint has the last bag of crab rangoons in his hand, so Bucky drifts over at the same time Romanoff does, and together they eat at least half the bag before Barton even notices.

“It’s all the science,” Stark declares, and then stands up on a desk, hooting. “It’s a three-way, _for science.”_

Banner rolls his eyes and turns his back to Stark, and starts explaining.

“Look, it took a while, but it really is the research that’s linking them all together. ChemHealth, Johns Hopkins, and Picket Medical had a three-way JDA - that’s a joint development agreement,” he says clearly over Stark crowing in the background. “Sure, something random like a grocery store could connect them, but this is it, this has to be the real thing. This is so much more likely to be the connection--” Banner chokes as Tony does something fond and weird with his hair that shuts him up. Bucky is fascinated. Are they all kindergarteners?

Tony sits down on the table and continues. “So ChemHealth was working on a specific chemical they’d found to smooth over the disruptions caused by old age, Alzheimer’s, dementia. Johns Hopkins had taken it a step further; they were looking at brain tissue from cadavers, trying to apply amino acids that would stop the deterioration upon death, thinking that kind of chemical might help keep the elderly alive longer. And Picket Medical, here, was designing a new injection system, that could insert new chemicals and medicines directly through the blood-brain barrier with minimal damage to the skull or cranial structure.”

Clint puts his hands over his face and leans backwards. Natasha steals the last crab rangoon. Bucky ends up sitting down on the floor to stretch his legs, leaning up against the metal legs of the table. 

“Okay,” Coulson says slowly. “So they were working together to create … what?”

Both of them erupt at once, and Coulson barks: “Stark, keep running the data. Banner, explain.”

“From one side this looks like an advantage for old people, keeping them alive, keeping their ability to think and process intact. But from another?” Banner flips a couple screens past, frowning. “If you’re a control-freak sociopath who wants to eliminate everyone else who might know about this, it’s potentially a, a super-serum, one that can combat old age and might mean semi-immortality.” He stops. “You know, if you’re crazy.”

The whole fucking room pauses. Bucky glances around. The BAU team are all caught, deep in thought, eyes distant as they realign. “Is that important?” he asks from the floor. “Does that change the, uh, profile?”

“There’s a small subset of killers known as glory-seekers,” Coulson says slowly. “They’re convinced that something’s real when it isn’t, usually from some trauma in childhood, and they get caught up in chasing the impossible.”

“Usually they don’t just want to find it,” Romanoff adds, “they want to keep it from anybody else.”

“It’s tied up in a sociopathic delusion,” Banner continues. “They’re rare, since sociopaths usually live in a concrete world of facts, but that makes their delusions twice as dangerous to break through. They believe they are something special: incarnation of a god, descendent of royalty, something… more.” He makes a wavy gesture with both hands, ending with open palms.

“They’re usually obsessed with old myths and legends,” Barton adds slowly, as if waking up. “Tony, take your latest subset and cross-reference with any interest in the occult - blogs, internet searches, library records, books purchased.”

“Can do, Hawkeye, but that’s gonna take a while,” Tony shoots back, fingers already flying. “Come on, JARVIS, old man. Kick it up here.” 

“This unfortunate man believes he can either bring someone back, or save someone’s life, perhaps his own.” Thor’s actually pensive. “Friend Tony, add a filter for a personal or close family illness or death.”

“Oh my god,” Stark says, “JARVIS is already like eighty-five with all these constraints, we couldn’t have done this earlier?”

“Tony,” Banner warns, his voice still affectionate. “You wanted to narrow the list, right?”

“You don’t understand, he’ll kill me in my sleep,” Stark says, but there’s still a pretty fierce grin on his lips, so Bucky figures he’s working it out.

“While that runs,” Romanoff asks, “how does this change what we already have? If we reinterpret the crime scenes through the lens of a glory-seeker, what changes?”

“Three shots,” Barton says slowly. “Three shots to the head. Three is a significant number in the occult and the superstitious. He’s trying to keep them from coming back.”

“A guy this arrogant believes that a number of bullets is gonna protect him?” Bucky asks, and Clint smiles the faint echo of a smile. 

“Arrogant or not, he believes in this kind of thing. It will show up in his background, somehow.” 

“Does it explain the two MOs?” Steve asks. “I’m no profiler, but I think that’s the thing I’m most stuck on.”

“Well,” Thor booms, and how the fuck does someone that loud sneak up on a crowd? Bucky refuses to look at him. “If we are right, and this is in fact the glory-seeker type, then the three shots to the head becomes the dominant portion of the killings. In that case, we would assume that MO was selected based on simple convenience.”

“Don’t forget the science angle,” Banner says, approaching. Bucky wonders whether the man always looks this tired, or if it’s a side effect from working with Stark. “This man is clearly wrapped in a delusion, but either he has access to this incredibly secret JDA or his science is actually sound. Either way, he hasn’t slipped the whole way off into superstition.”

“Ugh.” Barton rubs his hands vigorously over his face. “I think I liked him better before he was a megalomaniac.”

Bucky tilts his head, the question on his face: _you alright?_ Clint shrugs, slow-blinks. _Mostly._ Bucky can deal with mostly. 

Midnight comes, and goes.


	5. Wednesday

It’s about 3:00AM when Nat pulls him aside, through the halls, to one of the rooms that’s been made available for them, with couches and an unexpected number of pillows and incredibly tempting blankets.

“Can’t sleep, Nat,” Clint says. “Getting somewhere.”

Natasha looks up at him, her mouth wrinkled. “You more than anyone I know, Clint Barton, need to catch a couple hours of sleep at some point. Look. I promise I’ll get you up before too long.”

“No,” Clint says, crossing his arms. “Or only if you nap with me.”

There’s a sound at the door, and it’s Bucky, arms full of more pillows. “Here,” he says, dumping the whole pile onto the ground. “I didn’t realize how much the Howlies sneak naps around here until we started asking. What’s up?”

“Clint needs sleep,” Tasha says sternly.

“Tasha also needs a nap,” Clint says. He can be stubborn when he needs.

Barnes grins, and it’s only partially crooked. “Go ahead, both of you. _Have a kip,_ as Carter would say. I’ll be in to wake you up before we get too much farther, I promise.”

“Two hours,” Tasha says, and she and Barnes lock eyes for a little too long; Clint gets suspicious.

“Two hours, alright,” Bucky says. “Lie down, I’ll even tuck you in.”

“Customer service,” Clint mumbles, because now that he’s lying down on the couch he’s actually pretty fucking tired. He angles his body, and Tasha slides in between his arms, her back to his chest. For a moment Clint wonders whether this looks suspicious but he can’t seem to keep a hold of the thought, instead pulling Natasha closer and tucking her under his chin.

“Here,” Bucky says, draping a blanket or two over them. “Two hours. You’re good here.”

“Hold on,” he feels Nat say, as her fingers deftly collect his aids. “Put these somewhere?”

Barnes murmurs something Clint can’t quite pick up and he’d argue but Nat’s warm and he’s comfy and really, fuck his hearing anyway.

When Clint wakes up, Nat’s gone, her space cooled. Across the way, Barnes is sitting on the other couch, his legs up on an ottoman and his head back against the wall, snoring slightly. There’s a blanket half in his lap and half on the floor. Clint checks his phone: 6:43. Of _course_ Nat snuck out and left him to sleep. She’s some kind of elf, light on her feet. And an asshole.

He sits up as quietly as possible and rubs his eyes, nabbing his aids. At this hour there should be coffee, and he can work with another seven cups and almost four hours of sleep, totally. That’s reasonable; he’s done far worse. He tries to fold the blanket as best he can, and stands up. Barnes looks comfortable, so Clint crosses the room to shift the blanket fully over him, except that when he approaches there’s a low murmur, almost sweet in its sound.

“Already awake,” Barnes mumbles. “No need to be quiet.”

“Here,” Clint says gently, and he tugs the blanket fully over Bucky’s lap, tucking it in at his waist. “No need to get up, man. We’ve got this for now.”

“Jus’ another twenty minutes,” Barnes slurs, his head sagging onto his chest. Clint reaches out, and cups the man’s cheek very, very softly: the faint rasp of stubble, but otherwise, smooth skin. Clint tips Bucky’s head back onto the couch cushion, where it won’t pain him as much.

For a second he wants to press a kiss to the man’s forehead but it isn’t even lust anymore; it’s a direct descendant of this fucking situation, the fact that Clint himself needs reassurance, and he could fake it by being strong and caring for someone else, if he let himself — but instead, he just adjusts the blanket and leaves the room.

The conference room is dimmed. Tony is passed out, lying across one of the tables, which has been tugged away to sit against a wall; underneath it, Banner is also slumped, mostly against the wall. One of Tony’s legs is hanging off the table. It would be cute if they weren’t so desperate and haggard-looking.

Clint sees Rogers with Coulson and Natasha, working with a pared-down version of JARVIS, and heads over to the table.

“Thanks, Nat,” he says, but she just sticks her tongue out at him and huffs, a bit.

“Thor’s out on patrol,” Coulson says. “Carter’s having a nap in her office. The - um, Howling Commandos? - went home hours ago, with orders to get sleep. How likely are they to listen?”

Rogers snorts. “Dugan and Morita will be back before five. The others, probably by six. For a group of officers, they aren’t that great at following orders they don’t want to hear.”

“Tony set a JARVIS alarm for seven sharp,” Natasha says. She’s slipped around the table to stand next to Clint. He puts his arm around her waist and leans into her hair for a minute or two, watching the streams of data as JARVIS runs retrofit after retrofit. He knows at this point she’s really stopped caring about public image; he also knows how much she needs this, every now and then.

“I don’t understand,” Rogers says after a minute. “How can we predict this much about the guy and not have any leads? Not that it isn’t amazing,” he says quickly, stumbling over his words; “you’ve gathered all of this data so much faster than we ever would have been able to, don’t get me wrong. But I still feel like…” He trails off.

“Like it’s not enough?” Coulson laughs then, a low chuckle; Clint’s surprised to hear it. “Profiling isn’t an exact science. I feel like we should be farther, too, like we’re missing something, but all we can do is line the data points up with what we statistically and referentially know, and hope it makes some kind of picture we recognize.”

Clint shifts away, to sit at an abandoned table, pulling his tablet close to him. “Lemme catch up, then. How are we filtering this?”

“I’ll get you a coffee,” Nat says, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Make it twelve,” Clint replies.

Coulson sits down next to him. Clint is pretty sure he hasn’t had any sleep at all.

“We started with the big pool, men with addresses in Baltimore ages 35-50, registered guns in their name, military or officer training in their background. Then we’re tried variants of trauma in childhood, personal or family loss or illness, interest in the occult. We either get nothing, or hundreds of names.”

Clint flicks through his tablet. They’re missing something; they’re missing something. “Okay. I’m gonna spitball for a second, alright, JARVIS? Just some… guesswork.”

“Go ahead.”

“Hmm. A man like this has to be single, or at least live alone. He wouldn’t be able to put up with anyone in his space. No children, or estranged children. JARVIS, can you construct some kind of filter like that?”

“I will try,” JARVIS replies.

“Then,” Clint says, still desperately reaching, “It’s not just belief in the occult. It’s the science connection too. Someone who’s been to conferences, or meetings with the staff, maybe even someone involved in the JDA. I dunno, J?”

The artificial voice sounds tired, too. “Worth a try, sir.”

———

Bucky wakes up on his favorite couch, he and Steve leaning together as if to stay upright. Steve’s still sound asleep. Bucky’s foot is going numb. All of this is terrible.

He slides himself out from under Steve, letting him slump down mostly on the couch, although Bucky manages to stuff two pillows in place of his body. It’ll work. Steve’s a super sound sleeper these days.

He stumbles out of the lounge and makes his way back to the conference room. There’s a frantic desperation, a hum under everyone’s skin. He comes up to Carter’s side, nods at her.

“Stark,” Coulson barks, holding the phone away from his ear for a second. “Press conference at noon. Get ready.”

Bucky checks the time; it’s 10:42. He slept longer than he meant to. Fuck. He rubs both hands down his face, looking around for the cardboard tubs of coffee he knows Carter will have ordered from the coffee shop down the street. There they are, in the corner, along with an enormous spread of muffins and pastries from the same shop. Bless the BAU wallet, again. He heads over and debates kneeling down and just pouring the coffee directly into his mouth, bypassing the cup middleman.

“Don’t do it,” Barton says from behind him. “I’ve tried. Never ends well.”

Barton looks more awake than Bucky would have expected from someone he’s already seen uncaffeinated: his hair’s getting messy, spiked towards his forehead in a sweep Bucky’s actually kind of fond of. His eyes are bright, but Bucky can see the shadows starting to build. His glasses and the tousled hair make him look soft, like just some other guy. Some other super attractive goddamn guy. Apparently Bucky can’t ever just sleep things off.

He grabs two coffees for himself and a plate with a cinnamon crumble muffin. Barton takes two coffees as well and they go to sit somewhere near Coulson. Banner and Romanoff are skimming through files from the latest shooting, the coworkers from Picket, murmuring together with Natasha making notes on a pad of paper. 

He and Clint eat, rather automatically, like it’s a task to get done. The muffin tastes like sawdust anyway, even though Bucky knows they’re delicious. The coffee kind of tastes like sawdust too. He rubs his eyes again. This would be comfortable if he weren’t so fucking tired.

There’s a flicker from the center of the room, and then JARVIS’ voice can be heard over the general din: “Sir?”

“Yes?” Coulson says, at the same time Clint calls, “What you got, JARV?”

Banner follows with, “Tony’s getting dressed, J. What’s up?”

“A few hours ago, Agent Barton gave me a set of parameters based on what I shall call some ‘guesstimates’. I’ve been running these parameters against the original suspect pool, and with a few adjustments, I have in fact been able to narrow down to a selection of thirty-two individuals. While this is not the limited suspect pool we usually work with, it is the smallest we have been able to conceive of thus far, so I thought you might perhaps like to know.”

“Yes,” Coulson says immediately. “Give us a list of names and background information. It’s better than rehashing what we have over and over.”

“Include the set of filters this particular group came from,” Natasha adds. “So we don’t confuse it with another going forward.”

“And can you add the connection points - like, where they show up linked to either the locations or the victims?” Clint says.

“Of course,” JARVIS replies, and in a second, a hologram of a stack of folders appears.

Coulson sighs. “JARVIS, print them. We don’t have enough tablets to do this electronically, and I want to keep your main engine with Banner and this mysterious formula. We’ll pick up FRIDAY for additional analysis.”

“That’s quaint,” JARVIS replies. “Where can I connect to a printer?”

Bucky shifts. “There’s one over by Morita’s desk that should be on the wireless, assuming you’re on the wireless.”

“So quaint,” JARVIS says, and the voice sounds like it’s amused. “But I can certainly... Printing now.”

“You are the _best_ ,” Barton says. “Marry me.”

“You do know you’ve asked me that seventy-four times, Agent Barton, and the answer remains the same.”

“This is the sassiest robot voice I have ever heard,” Bucky says to no one in particular.

“Tony made it.” Banner shrugs. “What do you expect?”

“No, no, I like it,” Bucky is quick to correct.

Coulson cuts in. “Good work, JARVIS. While we sort through these, take Clint’s parameters and run us a, hmmm, maybe 75% parameter fit. See if the pool changes at all.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky heads out to the cubes to collect the growing stack of paper. They’ll have to sort them out, but that won’t be hard: JARVIS has already applied headers and footers on each page identifying the search string, the person’s name, and their connection to the crimes. Hot damn, but that’s convenient. Bucky kind of wants his own JARVIS for work. _Maybe I’ve been flirting with the wrong FBI agent,_ he thinks, and then he’s actually laughing out loud at himself, until his stomach hurts.

He carries the stack back to the room. Clint and Natasha have already cleared a table, so Bucky heads to the other side of it and drops the pile. “Here we go,” he says, with a sigh.

Clint catches his eye, and raises his eyebrows: _you alright?_

Bucky smiles, and shrugs. _Mostly._

————

At noon on the dot on Wednesday, Bucky is treated to his very first Tony Stark press conference. 

Carter hooks their normal screen up to Channel Thirteen, because that’s the newsroom they all hate the least, even though the conference is showing on all of the local channels in the city. Everyone’s awake for this, lounging around the room at various levels of caffeination and comfort. Bucky’s turned around on his chair, arms crossed on the back; behind him, Clint and Natasha have their feet up on the table.

A man walks up to the spiky sea of microphones and for a second Bucky tries to recognize him: it isn’t the mayor, it isn’t the sheriff, who else would be opening the press conference? The man’s hair is artfully tousled and he’s wearing glasses that have been tinted a shiny red above a fucking three piece suit, grey, with a white dress shirt and bright red tie. He’s sharp enough to cut someone, deliberately and devastatingly attractive, played straight for an audience. This is someone who isn’t just used to the spotlight, he breathes it like air.

“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky asks Steve, who is lounging across two chairs next to him.

“Oh my god,” Natasha snorts.

“Don’t tell Tony,” Banner says, sounding weary.

The glasses come off and of course, he should have known, this is The Tony Stark of Stark Industries — not the Stark he met, the ridiculous analyst wearing band tees over jeans with holes in them and whispering sweet nothings to his weirdly sarcastic AI personalities. Last night’s Stark slept on a table, for fuck’s sake. This is the professional Tony Stark, Communications Liaison for the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI. For a moment, Bucky wonders how the fuck Stark has a day job while running Stark Industries, but almost immediately after his brain decides it doesn’t really care about the answer right now.

“He cleans up well,” Steve admits, and Bucky hears a thunk behind him, like Romanoff just put her head down on the table.

“Definitely don’t tell Tony,” Bruce advises.

Stark opens with what’s obviously a prepared statement, updating the public on the fact that yes, the FBI is in town to hunt down a serial killer; yes, we are doing everything we can; no, we cannot share any information about the case yet. Thor’s standing behind him, arms clasped behind his back, his face serious. Bucky is starting to think that Thor is also the, uh, bouncer of the BAU team — not that Thor isn’t clever on his own, but he also gets a lot of use out of the intimidation factor when he isn’t being a cheerful puppy.

The best part starts when the press is allowed to ask questions.

“What can you say to people who are afraid at this time?”

Tony coughs, rubs a finger on his lips. “Stay alert. Be in touch with your family, friends, and coworkers. If something happens to one of them, call the tip line right away. The FBI will be screening all calls in regards to this case.”

“Can you tell us anything about the individual you’re calling Red Skull?”

“No,” Tony says crisply, “because we aren’t calling anyone anything. As far as I understand, the press came up with that name, so maybe you can answer the question? Can you tell _me_ anything about a person called Red Skull?”

The reporter looks suitably chastened, a blush scrambling across her face.

Another reporter steps in, the movement literally physical, as if he’s moving towards the cameras. “How are you protecting the people of Baltimore from additional sniper attacks?”

Tony’s face goes flat on that one, and he raises an eyebrow. “That question? All the things you could ask, and you pick that question?”

“I…” The reporter is obviously not expecting that, but he squares his shoulders and says tentatively, “Yes?”

“Okay,” Tony says genially, with the smile of a shark. “What kind of answer would you expect to hear in a best case scenario?”

The reporter is silent.

Tony gives him a few beats, and then continues: “We’re closing off access to all buildings that rise about 30 feet? We’re covering the city with foam so that no one can see the ground? We’re deleting all guns in a thirty mile radius, effective immediately?”

The original reporter is looking at the ground, but the one next to him calls, “So there’s nothing you are doing to keep the people of Baltimore safe from this madman?”

“What we are doing,” Tony says, between grinning teeth, “is our job, which is to apprehend the individual responsible for these shootings. That is the best way we can keep Baltimore safe. That, and your awareness and assistance with the case. Next question, and please don’t make it a dumb one.”

Natasha sighs behind them. “I love watching him work.”

“ _Please_ don’t tell Tony,” Barton and Banner moan, simultaneously.

Carter mutes the TV. “The FBI won’t be screening all those calls,” she says in a low voice to Coulson, and Bucky notes the tension.

“I’ve adopted you as temporarily FBI,” Coulson replies, smiling genially at her. “Your, um, Howling Commandos? They volunteered.”

“Of course they did,” Carter says, and her mouth hits that flat red line again, although Bucky thinks she’s trying not to smile back at Coulson.

———

By 1600, Clint stands up and stretches. Natasha glances up at him, and he waves her back down to where she, Steve, and now Tony are continuing to review the thirty-two candidates. “I just need some fresh air,” he murmurs, and she nods, understanding.

Tasha and Tony and Thor and even Bruce can all push themselves until they drop. Clint, though: he doesn’t drop, and if he keeps at it, he’ll push until his head gets into a really bad place and he needs more than a walk to get out of it. He thinks it’s because of all the shit he had to go through in his past where he _wasn’t_ allowed to drop, where he had to keep going or else: or else pain, or else hurt, or else… Fuck. He’s already starting to cycle.

He finds a back door and opens it carefully. It’s a loading dock, fenced in with railings, and at the very end of the dock is Bucky, sitting on the top railing with perfect balance and smoking a cigarette. His hair is down, tangling slightly in the wind, and he’s gorgeous right now: taking a drag from the cigarette, blowing smoke out through his nose, eyes closed. Fuck. The oppressive _want_ has been buried under the stress of the case, dead bodies and no leads, but Clint stands for a long moment and just _appreciates._

Eventually he lets the door shut, and the noise causes Barnes to glance around to see who it is. Clint walks to the end of the dock, leans up against the railing next to Bucky.

“I don’t even fucking smoke,” Barnes says. “Nicked them out of Dernier’s desk. Don’t even know why. Just needed something to do?”

“I don’t smoke either,” Clint says. “Have one to share?”

Bucky pulls the pack out of his jacket pocket and holds it out to Clint. He takes one, and without a lighter present, leans in to light it off of the one Bucky’s holding in his mouth. It’s the closest they’ve been in a while, and he wants to stay there, looking into Bucky’s eyes, but there just isn’t a time or place for it anymore.

He takes a long pull, exhaling in one forceful breath from his mouth. “These things are fucking disgusting.”

Bucky chuckles, and exhales smoke from his nostrils again.

They remain in silence for a few minutes, not really needing any words. “Hair’s gonna smell like smoke,” Clint says, eventually, deliberately not looking at Bucky.

“Whatever.” Bucky tosses his butt to the ground where Clint, obligingly, steps it out. “Need a fucking shower anyway.” He glances Clint’s way, and there’s a faint smile. “Least now you know how long it is.”

Clint chokes on a laugh. “I’ll be sure to file it in my final report,” he says, and Barnes snorts.

Silence kicks in again, but it’s comfortable. There’s a small breeze in Clint’s face, and he tosses his cigarette and closes his eyes, breathing into the wind. There’s a sort of warmth next to him, seemingly coming off of Bucky, although Clint knows he’s just making that up. Bucky’s probably just blocking the wind on that side. It feels nice, though, that somebody’s there, even if it’s just to block the breeze.

“How long have you been doing this?” Bucky asks.

Clint doesn’t even open his eyes. “I’ve been with the BAU for seven years. Danced around in the FBI for three or four years before that.”

He feels Bucky glance over. “Is that a long time?”

Clint laughs and opens his eyes. “Feels like it.”

Bucky chews his bottom lip. “Stevie and I have been with Carter - with Peggy - for about that long. Met her during our stint in the Army, actually. She looked us up when we came back - she was Chief of Police of some sort for a couple boroughs in New York City, where Stevie and I are from, and she took us and all of the Howlies on when this task force thing started.” He sighs. “We’ve been in Baltimore for two years now. I actually thought things were getting better.”

“Serial killers are outliers,” Clint says automatically. “Their motivations are so different from petty crime - and why do they call it petty crime, anyway? It’s still crime - and they don’t respond to the kind of policing and programs that can actually help clean up a city.”

“Huh.” Bucky’s frowning, like he’s thinking something through, but Clint doesn’t comment.

“So I don’t understand the task force thing quite yet, but first I have to ask about the fucking Howling Commandos,” he says instead. “Really?”

To his surprise Bucky bursts out laughing, tucking his hair behind his ear; his face is relaxed and open and Clint’s actually _feeling_ something underneath all of the heavy case details and his usual self-doubt. There’s a soft of relief, bubbling through him, like the fizz in champagne, and it’s clearing out some of the murk and muck that has gathered itself in the back of his mind. It’s refreshing.

“Stevie and I were stationed together in the Army,” Bucky begins. “And we ended up becoming sort of a special team, for raids in Afghanistan, right? And we had the pick of any of the guys who were also stationed with us, but these guys?” He waves a hand back at the building and laughs. “These guys, once they’d gone on one mission with us, they stuck. Sort of like tissue on your shoe. And the thing is that once we had the whole rotten group of ‘em, of course they were better than anyone else available, they’d done it before. So then that became our team, and we ended up with a higher success rate than anyone else over there.”

Clint’s grinning back at him, because it’s funny, but also because Barnes’ amusement is contagious: he looks at that smile and can’t help smiling back. “But the name?”

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky says, laughing again. “That came from some captain, different squadron, real son of a bitch. The guys are loud, see, and they were all about enjoying things as they come, even in war, right? So every night was a party. And at that point they had started calling Stevie _Captain America,_ for some reason I can’t even fuckin’ remember, but I do remember at some point in the night this asshole just stands up and yells, “Captain America, can you _silence_ your goddamn _howling commandos_?”

Clint’s laughing, so hard, picturing the look on Rogers’ face, picturing how hard Bucky must have laughed, because he’s trying to talk through laughing now too.

“Of course it stuck,” Bucky manages, running a hand through his hair. “They were all damn proud of it. And of course when they agreed to come into law enforcement with us, Peggy did something and got it listed in the books as a real and legal police organization: The Howling Commandos.” He snorts. “Fuckin’ hilarious.”

“Seriously?” Clint asks. “I wouldn’t have guessed she had it in her.”

“Oh, Peggy’s got jokes for days,” Bucky says easily, glancing over at Clint. “It’s just, she keeps it all under wraps, unless it’s a safe kind of situation.”

“Phil was like that,” Clint muses, “but we eventually broke him down. When it was just me and Nat, he was a lot easier-going, but then when the team grew, he felt like he had to present a different kind of face to the FBI.” He starts grinning himself, now. “But you can only hold out so long against somebody like Tony Stark. Or Thor. At this point, Phil can walk the walk, but he doesn’t even try when it’s just us.”

They pause, looking out over what is a completely uninspiring view of a parking lot. Barnes lights up another cigarette, but this time he passes it to Clint to share, and Clint accepts. Smoking is terrible, and he isn’t sure why he’s doing it, except that everything else is terrible, too.

“My turn,” Bucky says eventually. “Hawkeye?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Clint replies, and it comes out incredibly fond. “So, I told you I was a sniper too. I’ve done a lot of - weird shit, I guess, that’s the best way to describe it. The name’s from, uh, a different part of my life.” He hands the cigarette back, and looks out at the parking lot. “Thing is, I see better from a distance. That’s one of the reasons I ended up here.” He shrugs. “The fact that it _stuck_ is all Tony’s fault, cause he thinks it’s funny that a guy with perfect aim needs glasses occasionally to read a tablet. Ha fuckin ha.”

“Clint.” Bucky’s voice is softer, almost fond; he’s looking at Clint with this crooked smile, shy and intimate. “You like what you do?”

Clint exhales. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah, I do. I like knowing that I can save lives, that I have saved lives. I like seeing horrible people get what they deserve. But there’s also… the profiling.” He shrugs, glancing away. “I was never too good at reading people or figuring out what made them tick, but now, it’s like I know where all the strings are that I can pull. It’s a puzzle.” He makes a brief, abortive gesture. “Not that I’m turning the deaths of innocent people into a game, right? Fuck that. No. But pulling the strings out of a murderer’s head and using them to catch him and take him down? Yeah. I like that part.”

“Hm.” Bucky looks at him, mouth wrinkling into a smirk. He says in a low voice, a weird mix of reluctant and curious: “Have you profiled me yet?”

Clint looks back and it’s a clean look: nothing flirty or charming about it, it’s an honest question, and he’ll give it an honest answer.

“I’m trying,” he says, his own mouth quirking upwards. “But you’re not exactly an easy read.”

“Open book, doll,” Bucky says then, to Clint’s surprise. He hops neatly off of the railing, and gathers his hair together at the back of his head to pull it into a hairband. He tips his head towards Clint and adds, “once you get past the cover,” and then heads back inside.

———-

It’s after 2000 when Bucky starts to pick up on something that’s been humming in the back of his brain.

There’s something someone said today that sparked a train of thought he’s been letting sit in the back of his head, not looking too closely - it’s probably nothing, just a dumb idea - but it’s been percolating like the shitty coffee Falsworth used to make (and after talking to Barton about the Howlies this afternoon, all of his analogies are going to be from wartime, he just knows it) and it might have become something thick enough to have a bit of weight.

He leaves Steve with the folders and slides over in next to Barton, who he figures is the least likely to laugh at him if this is a stupid question.

“Hey,” he says before Clint can open his mouth, “when we looked for similar cases in this guy’s past, where did we look?”

Clint blinks, and frowns. “Baltimore records,” he says, “probably state? Maybe nationwide? Hey, J,” he calls, and now people are starting to look. “When you were looking for potentially linked cases, where were you looking?”

“At this point I’ve run nationwide,” JARVIS answers, “although I started in recent years and am moving back in time, which means I haven’t compiled the full thirty years review that was requested.”

Clint looks back at Bucky, an eyebrow cocked in question, and Bucky thinks, what the hell.

“So I was thinking about the whole, uh, occult thing, right? Wanting immortality, being superstitious, delusions, whatever you were talking about. And the thing is…”. He brings his hand up to rub at the back of his neck, and then sighs. “So my ma’s side of the family was from Northern Europe, right, and they were the superstitious ones. It’s been burnt out of most of America, you know, the occult, and anything that someone would get obsessed with is more like…” He waves a hand. “The witch trials, voodoo in New Orleans, Bigfoot. That’s our stuff.”

At this point the room has quieted down to listen and Bucky really feels dumb for a minute until he glances over at Stevie - who’s nodding at him - and then back at Clint, who simply raises a fraction of an eyebrow. “It’s the European occult that chase immortality. Norse gods, the Celtic pantheon, Germanic - I remember my aunts and uncles had all these - never mind. But if you’re right and this guy is that kind of crazy - would he have any criminal history _not_ in the United States?”

Coulson reaches for his phone. “Statistically, killers are unlikely to cross borders,” he says slowly, “which is why we focused on the States. But in this case, if we’re right about this parameter, it wouldn’t hurt to cross reference. Let me get on the phone with Interpol, and I’ll see—”

“I’m in,” Tony announces, casually, with a shit-eating grin..

Coulson gapes at him a little, and Tony shrugs. “I know a guy.”

“At this point,” Coulson says, “I actually believe you.”

Tony and Coulson go off on a list of parameters for their Interpol rendezvous. Bucky grins back at Steve and then reaches around Clint for a folder, only to have Natasha slam her hand down on it. 

“Sorry, Bucky,” she says, “but we’re using FRIDAY to collate these, and you don’t have a tablet.”

“Neither does Stevie,” Bucky says, pointing over at him.

Natasha smiles real slow. “He’s reviewing the ones we’ve already input.”

Clint shrugs. “I told you, man, sometimes fresh eyes see something we don’t.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, “keep them coming.” He claps a hand down on Clint’s shoulder for a brief second, feeling warmly rewarded when Clint’s hand comes up to squeeze his for a moment.

Bucky goes back to take his seat with Steve, pulling the folder between them so that he can look too. (He’d been dozing before, actually, head on the table with Steve’s comforting bulk beside him.). “So, what we got?”

Steve ghosts a glance over at him, that smug little smile on his lips. “Are you making friends, Bucky?”

“Piss off, you punk.” Bucky tries to shrug it off.

Steve just grins at him. “It’s nice,” he says, and then it’s back-to-business Rogers, just like it always is. 

“So the profilers are going through and marking things from each of these suspects that may be a sign for other nefarious behavior. I guess there are indicators that can point to someone being more or less likely to, well, shoot people in the head. They’re then passing them on to me, to review and make sure there isn’t anything _we_ might flag as interesting that they may have missed.” Steve shrugs. “It’s probably redundant work, but this is the closest we have right now, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to trust it all to the machines.”

“JARVIS heard that,” Stark calls from across the room, and Steve shoots him a huge grin.

“Detective Rogers is quite correct,” JARVIS insists. “Profiling is an art as much as it is a science, and relying only on my calculations could introduce a false positive without considering human factors.”

“So there,” Steve says, and Stark flips him off with both hands, while grinning, and turns back to his work.

“Making friends, Stevie?” Bucky prompts, but Steve just kind of flushes a little bit and says, “Anyway. Here’s this guy.”

“This guy” is Ross Patrick, a wealthy entrepreneur looking for new business opportunities. He’s spent time at some of the science conferences all three institutions had attended, and he’s had some meetings with Picket. Bucky just doesn’t see any red flags, though; the guy’s only crime is being filthy rich enough to own three yachts, but then again, he’s sitting across the room from Tony Stark. He glances up, and realizes that Tony fucking Stark is wearing pajamas with what looks like the Harry Potter logo. Christ.

“Eh,” is his vote, and Steve decides to move the folder to the “Eh” pile.

They continue like this, filtering the folders between “maybe?”, “Eh”, and “Nah”, with a fourth pile called “look again when we aren’t exhausted.” So far their only maybes are Laurent DeLaurier, who has attended conferences and speeches but has no interest in investing so why was he there?; and John Smith, a rich investor focusing in the medical field, who has some gaps in his background that can’t answer how he ended up a millionaire in Baltimore. It has to be ass-o'clock in the morning because he and Stevie have a huge laugh over both of their names. Laurent DeLaurier is the kind of stupid-ass fake name you put on an underage ID, for fuck’s sake, and John Smith? Fucking _John Smith?_ Hell, they’re both weeping at the end of it, giddy as children. 

“You all need some sleep,” Natasha says, and they both look up simultaneously to see her and Clint both watching with obvious amusement.

“You know, that’s not the worst idea,” Steve says, and Bucky stands up to follow him because Steve never listens to arguments at this hour.

They settle in their usual room. Steve stretches out on his couch, puts a pillow over his face, and is asleep in what seems like seconds. Bucky can’t fathom the couch again, so he tips back the recliner section at the end, grabs a pillow, wraps himself in blankets, and closes his eyes.

———

“That was the last one,” Tasha says, leaning back and tipping her neck to either side. Clint can hear a series of cracks as she does one side, then the other. She sighs in relief.

“That’s so nasty,” Clint tells her. “Ouch.”

“You’d understand if you did it,” she replies, as usual. Then she glances around the room. “Look,” she says softly, “Coulson’s just… I’m gonna take him to one of the other conference rooms, get him to sleep a few hours.”

Clint looks. Coulson’s head is propped up on his fist, and his eyes are red and bloodshot, staring at nothing in particular. The bags under his eyes could carry groceries. His hair, usually well-ordered, is mussed in a few places. Clint feels a pang of sympathy.

“Need help?” he asks Tasha.

“Nah,” she says, standing and stretching; again, her back makes a series of terrible crackling sounds Clint just doesn’t think are normal. “But I’d suggest you get a bit yourself.”

Clint watches her approach Coulson. Out of the team, she’s the one he’s most likely to listen to, mainly because she doesn't have a weak spot and just doesn’t listen to any of Coulson’s well-made points until the conversation reaches a level where he gives in just to get it over with. It’s a learned behavior. He watches as Coulson makes only the most rudimentary of protests, and then lets Natasha help him up and whisk him off to some private conference room where he can collapse with the best chance of not being seen. Coulson hates feeling vulnerable, so the only way they can get him to sleep is through this kind of complicated approach.

Clint glances over. Tony, Bruce, and Thor all slept a bit earlier, and they’re now enthusiastically picking through the coworker information, highlighting potential threats. He gives them a sloppy salute and heads back to the lounge where he’d napped before.

Rogers is sprawled across the largest couch, a pillow held over his face, snoring lightly underneath it. The other couch is free, except for the foot, where Barnes is sleeping in a leant-back recliner sectional. His face is barely visible under the blankets. Clint’s inexplicably charmed. 

Without really thinking, he goes to grab a couple blankets himself, flops down on the couch with his head in Barnes’ lap, palms his aids, tucks himself in, and closes his eyes.


	6. Thursday

Bucky wakes up extremely warm, beneath a very comforting weight, to the stupid fucking sound of Steve’s fucking barnyard alarm. His left hand is caught in something, and he struggles to bring his right arm out to pull the covers off his face, trying to holler but mostly just mumbling: “Stev’ you fuckin’ idiot turnnat shit off before imma…”

He hears Steve chuckle, and the alarm goes blessedly silent. “Go back to sleep, Buck,” and there’s some really obvious amusement in his voice that makes Bucky think he should probably open his eyes.

His fucking left hand. His fingers are threaded through something thick, and soft: his fucking prosthetic hand. Maybe his calibration’s off? It doesn’t feel like a blanket. Feeling isn’t always accurate in that arm, but he’s gotten used to the usual textures he wakes up to. This isn’t one.

He should probably open his eyes.

After what may have been an additional fifteen minutes of dozing, Bucky manages to get his eyes open. The first thing he notices is that he’s tipped back in the recliner at the end of the couch, and Clint’s head is in his lap, along with much of his upper body, which seems to have migrated there overnight. His left hand is tangled in Clint’s hair, having pulled and tugged it to what must have been the most comfortable position — probably not the best look. Clint’s face is mashed into his thigh, next to his knee, and both arms are wrapped somewhat around Bucky’s lap like he’s the world’s most misshapen pillow.

 _Fuck,_ but it’s adorable.

Bucky tips himself back and exhales slowly. His left hand starts carding through Barton’s hair as if it knows what it’s doing, and Clint makes this noise like a sleeping puppy and tries to burrow closer. His hair is _great._ No wonder his unconscious self did this; Bucky experimentally tries a head massage, rubbing the fingertips into Clint’s scalp, and he’s rewarded with another of those sad-puppy noises. The texture is amazing against the metal of his hand. It’s a pleasant feeling he could get used to.

The fuck is he doing? His stupid mechanical arm, that he mostly tries to keep out of sight, and now he’s playing with an almost-stranger’s hair and rubbing his head with metal fingertips. And yet he doesn’t want to stop; it’s nice, for once, having his hand do something gentle and friendly. How the fuck did Barton end up in his lap anyway?

Does he even care at this point?

Bucky feels himself at the edge of a long drop, like a well, a feeling hidden far underneath the layers they’re going to have to break through to solve this case: it’s not a happening, but a temptation, a reminder, that if there weren’t all these thorny roadblocks - of things much more important - there’s a good chance Bucky could fall. Far.

He contemplates that fact as he pulls his prosthetic fingers through the other man’s hair, and wonders whether it’s the weight of this case on his shoulders buffering it all or if he really just doesn’t give a fuck about anything anymore.

Clint murmurs something into his thigh, shifting his weight around, and then Bucky feels him jerk awake, all at once, as if he’s recognized the unfamiliarity of the setting. He’s seen this in wartime, and he doesn’t know much about Clint’s background, but he does know that he doesn’t want to get dickpunched or anything.

“Barton,” he says, softly, withdrawing his hand from the man’s hair. “Hey, wake up, it’s cool, you’re alright.”

“MmmmnghNat?” Clint mouths into Bucky's jeans.

“Should I be offended or complimented?” Bucky asks the back of his head, and then puts a hand on his shoulder. “Clint, buddy, time to get up.”

“Th’fuck?” Clint’s now trying to push himself upright, but since he’s sprawled across Bucky’s lap, it isn’t going well. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bucky says gently, and stills Clint, waiting for him to relax before he starts to draw the man’s upper body up. “It’s cool. Just sit up, man, it’s alright.”

“‘M not the,” Clint mumbles, rubbing a hand over his eyes and up into his hair. His other hand hooks what must definitely be hearing aids into his ears, the motion smooth and automatic “Barnes?”

“There you go,” he says, keeping his voice easy and calm. “Morning. I’m gonna guess you need a two-liter of coffee right about now.”

“Fuck’n,” Clint tries, “inject that shit. Barnes, y’ra good pillow.”

“Uh, thank you,” Bucky says, trying not to laugh. Clint’s sitting up the whole way now, and his eyes open slowly. Bucky has forgotten how soft Clint looks before fully waking up; his lips are an easy smile, his eyes lidded and heavy. It’s only his second time seeing it but he’s pretty sure he could see it dozens of times without getting sick of it.

“W’na kiss you now,” Clint murmurs, blushing across his stupid cheekbones, and Bucky _wants_ this, dear god, and he doesn’t know how to answer. Is Clint even awake enough to know what he’s saying? 

Bucky pauses a moment too long. Clint leans forward, and captures his lips, and they’re _kissing_ : slow, as if there’s all the time in the world this morning, and weirdly sweet; Clint’s tongue darts out but it’s like his whole mouth is sleepy, and Bucky can’t breathe, all he can do is move his lips against Clint’s and suck at his tongue, gently, thinking all the while, _I could do this for hours._

Clint’s tongue flicks his lower lip as they part. Clint looks up at him, reddened cheeks and lips, eyes lidded and satisfied, and something purrs in Bucky’s chest with additional want.

“Isser coffee?” Clint says, attempting what Bucky assumes is meant to be a blindingly charming smile; it comes off plaintive, wheedling, and Bucky is weak to exactly all of it.

“Concentrate on sitting up, asshole,” and he can’t even keep the fondness from his voice. “I’ll bring you a whole pot if I can.”

“Knew I liked you,” Clint mumbles, settling back into the couch, and Bucky is so _fucked._

———

It’s 01:30 by the time Clint gets off the couch, all dark and stiff-feeling. They’ve all been up, at this point, for the better part of forty-eight hours, minus these naps, and he can feel it dragging at his bones, as if thirty-pound weights have been tied to his feet. It isn’t the first time they’ve done it, of course. Coulson can usually pinpoint with almost mathematical precision the point of diminishing returns, and if he hasn’t called that yet, Clint needs to get his brain in gear and get back to it. He feels all soft from Barnes, almost liquid, but he knows that isn’t where he needs to be.

He comes back to the conference room in the midst of one of Tony’s high-intensity babbles that only Bruce - and sometimes Thor - can manage to translate. Clint actually thinks some of it is in German, which is hilarious, because Tony can make himself understood in a number of languages but other than key useful words the rest of his vocabulary is incredibly colorful epithets. He has no idea where Tony learnt it all. Clint knows a little German, mostly from listening to Tony cuss up a storm, and he takes a second to really enjoy Tony switching between English, German, and what sounds like Spanish to call - someone - _the fucking pink icing and goddamned sparkly fucking sprinkles on the top of a fuck cake made with fucking gluten free flour, in the shape of a fucking penis, Bruce!_

“What got into him?” He asks Nat, under his breath.

“Twelve cups of coffee and something JARVIS beeped into his ear-thing about fifteen minutes ago,” she replies. She looks refreshed and lively, as if it were 9AM rather than whatever-the-fuck-o'clock after midnight; she must have had some sleep herself, probably guarding the door of wherever Coulson had collapsed. Coulson and Carter are both standing as if drawn to the noise, arms crossed, almost perfect mirror images. Clint doesn’t doubt for a second that they both understand Tony’s ranting.

“Literally, twelve cups,” Nat repeats with emphasis. “It’s _disgusting_. He’s going to have a heart attack.”

“He’s a _walking_ heart attack,” Bruce murmurs, fondly.

 _It’s a fucking goddamn Christmas miracle with fucking tap shoes on the fucking dancers in a fuck ballet,_ Tony continues, this time mostly in pidgin Russian, which Clint understands because Nat taught him all the good words.

“He’s finally cracked,” Clint says to the room at large, mournfully. “Time to put him down.”

Bucky and Steve walk into the room, arms full of coffee cups, and Tony halts, frozen, then points at them and screeches, “ _You!”_

Steve looks a little scared. Bucky raises an eyebrow and says, deadpan, “Yes, Tony, I’m Red Skull.”

“You were right, Buckaroo,” Tony says, thankfully in English this time. “You were fucking right. _A dick cake,_ Bruce. _Dick icing._ ”

“I don’t speak Spanish, Tony,” Bruce murmurs.

Bucky sets three cups of coffee down on the nearest table and walks over to hold the fourth directly in front of Stark’s face. “I will give you this,” he says as Tony’s eyes light up, “but only if you promise to explain what the fuck you’re talking about in, like, ten words or less.”

“Johann Schmidt,” Tony says succinctly, and makes grabby hands at the coffee.

“Is that another bad language word?” Bruce asks Thor. Thor shrugs.

“Do _not_ give him that coffee,” Natasha says, with the weary sound of someone who knows she’ll be the one driving the ambulance.

Bucky holds it up where he can’t reach; Bucky’s shorter than Clint, but almost anyone is taller than Tony. “Okay, then, more than ten words but less than, say, fifty.”

“Who we’re looking for. Johann Schmidt. Red Skull.” Tony continues to make pathetic gestures at the mug Bucky is now holding high above his head. “Germany. You were right.”

The room holds still in a breath of silence, everyone letting the words sink in.

Slowly, Bucky lowers his arm and hands Tony the coffee. “You’d better take this, cause I think you owe us some details too.”

Nat just sighs and Clint hears her murmur _god-damnit_ under her breath.

Thor, who has been flicking through the last few screens Tony had up, and mumbling to JARVIS, laughs heartily. “Oh, now I see! Lord JARVIS has found two shootings in Germany that match the MO of our unsub! Three shots to the head! The gun was traced to a Johann Schmidt, but unfortunately, he was not apprehended by either the German police or the brave souls of Interpol!”

Tony slurps the coffee loud enough that everyone looks at him, and then makes the world’s most childish sulky face, probably because Thor is more coherent and got to explain first.

“It appears JARVIS is even now requesting their detailed records so that we can attempt to match the bullets or obtain more information on the murders! We may have found the unsub’s first crimes, my friends.”

The room explodes into chaos, until Coulson raises a hand and says: “ _Quiet._ ” It isn’t loud. It’s just spoken with the confidence of a man who is used to being obeyed.

Everyone freezes, eyes entirely on Phil.

Coulson waits for a full ten seconds, and then slowly lowers his arm. “Stark, work with Chief Carter - she has contacts at Interpol as well - and get every detail you can about the cases. If they are in fact related, Bruce, figure out how they fit into the scientific angle, as the data comes in. Natasha, Clint, you take FRIDAY and see what happened to Johann Schmidt. Check if there are any records of a Johann Schmidt entering the States, particularly on the East Coast. Thor…” Coulson rubs his face with his hand. “Help Stark and Banner, and make sure Tony doesn’t OD on coffee and lock us out of JARVIS.”

“Wouldn’t,” Tony murmurs into his coffee, but he does look rebellious.

“Rogers, Barnes,” Carter says. “Put out an APB on Johann Schmidt. I want the airport, the buses, the harbor, everything. If the man has a credit card, I want the records. Yes, I know your JARVIS can retrieve it,” she says archly to Tony, her British accent particularly sharp, “but we are in fact a fully functional police department, and we can manage this while you and I negotiate with Interpol.”

“Wasn’t gonna negotiate,” Tony mutters, but shuts up when Coulson sends him one of his Patented Looks.

“We will most certainly use the proper channels.” Carter’s looking at Tony, and Clint’s surprised when the corner of those red lips curls upwards. “If only to cover your tracks.”

“See, now, I like you,” Tony says with a grin. “Let’s do dinner. Breakfast. I know a place with a good cup of coffee.” He raises the mug at her as proof.

Carter’s lips twitch. “My office,” she says, turning on her heel. The rest of them have shucked off jackets and belts, shoes, Nat’s bra, and, in Thor’s case, pants — but Carter is still in her uniform suit and heels. Clint can respect that. Heels are rough. He wishes he could get a picture of the Chief of Police’s neat jacket and skirt next to Tony Stark’s goddamn Harry Potter pajamas.

“Get to work, you ingrates,” Coulson says. He’s still wearing his suit, too, but he’s actually kicked his shoes into the corner. His socks are plaid. It’s strangely endearing. He’s tapping away on his own mobile, most likely updating Fury and the rest of the chain of command on the case status. Coulson has to do a lot of justification, sometimes.

Clint takes a breath, and - he can’t help it - glances over at Bucky. He’s conferring with Steve, both of them going through directories on their phones. Clint remembers waking up, the gentle haze of it, and Bucky’s voice. Kissing him. Yes, he’s stupid without his coffee, but he isn’t sure it was a mistake.

Steve and Bucky head out of the room, towards the cubes. Bucky stops at the door, throwing a glance back, his lips twitching when he catches Clint staring. His mouth quirks, slightly, and then he disappears.

Clint gets to work, the ingrate.

————

“Alright,” Steve says, trying not to yawn. “It’s 5:15. Maybe people will get into their offices soon, start calling back.”

Bucky shrugs. They’d gotten through to enough of the important people that there’s a travel ban halting anyone with the name Johann Schmidt, along with an active APB using the description Tony had scoured from the Interpol records. In a lot of cases, though, they’d had to give confirmation codes to night-shift subordinates who could issue things on the authority of the Task Force but couldn’t really give any detailed answers or support. He and Steve have left messages. It feels like hundreds of messages.

Bucky feels himself slipping into that mindset that settles on him when he’s so overtired that he stops, well, feeling it; he gets jittery, wound up, overfocused. It has its benefits, but it’s always terrible once he crashes. Oh well. He feels like they’re close, somehow, but he isn’t sure why. This could all be a fucking dead end.

They have a picture of Schmidt, but it’s a full fifteen years old - _fifteen years._ According to the BAU, a fifteen year cooling off period between kills is significant. They’re all flipping through the information they have, trying to figure out what happened in that fifteen years. It doesn’t help that Johann Schmidt isn’t a rare name - there are a number even here in Baltimore, let alone Germany - but the entire team is in there, shouting ideas at JARVIS, and they’ve picked out a partial trail before and after the two shootings that Interpol had on file.

The find has relit their enthusiasm. Peggy ordered a huge platter of breakfast from some cafe she frequents in her own personal time, and they certainly delivered, as local places have been doing all week. Bucky is pretty sure he hasn’t eaten this well on his own in forever. Steve and Bucky are heading towards the buffet now, because the entire police headquarters smells like fucking bacon and eggs, and Bucky has a masterful need. 

Steve puts four fucking muffins on his plate, fills a mug with black coffee, and goes to sit with Tony and Thor, asking for an update. At this point, it’s all first names between them; even Carter and Coulson have devolved into Peggy and Phil, although it caused Thor to start singing about _Peggy and Phil, sitting in a tree,_ which stopped when he was hit in the head by two pens and a shoe. But the desperate camaraderie has settled in, when it’s like they’ve worked together for years; there’s no energy left for formality. Bucky guesses that’s what happens when Thor Odinson strips down to his boxers while declaring he is simply making himself comfortable - one part that and three parts grasping at straws. And pants.

Bucky brings his enormous pile of eggs, cheese, and bacon over to sit beside Clint. Natasha’s on his other side, and they’re working through some theory between the two of them that Bucky tries to catch up on. It’s something about Schmidt ending up in England, of all places. When Clint picks up a discarded fork and helps himself to Bucky’s plate, Bucky just rolls his eyes at Natasha and lets him.

“Thoughts, Barnes?” Natasha reaches over with her own fork, trying for a piece of bacon. She fails to get it, and huffs, trying again.

“Catch me up, and I’ll let you have the bacon.”

She groans as she manages to stab it and shoves the entire piece in her mouth. While she’s lost in the throes of good bacon, Clint swallows and gestures at his tablet, pulling the information up on a holo between them that’s easier for three people to follow.

“Here’s what we have so far. Basically, Schmidt started as a big, fat, motherfucking new-world neo-Nazi. Right? The fuck does that? He worked for some kind of science research institute, but the kind that, like, thought the concentration camps were great opportunities for double blind studies and tried to _update it_ for this century. All kinds of human experimentation. Some were ‘volunteers’, I guess, but who knows how willing of a volunteer? The rest appear to be the result of some underhanded deal with small portions of the German government, which apparently auctioned death-row prisoners off on some kind of disgusting secret black market. I reiterate: what the fuck.”

“Dude, World War Two called, they’d like their bullshit back,” Bucky says, trying for levity, and both Clint and Natasha snort.

“This kind of thing still happens,” Natasha says. “Even developed countries still have ghettos.” Bucky glances up, because he and Stevie have problems with that word sometimes, but Natasha’s face is perfectly resigned, as if she knows exactly how she’s using it. “The rich only want to be richer.”

“Nat,” Clint murmurs, “you can save your primer on how terrible humanity is until _afterwards._ ”

“But what if it’s relevant?” Natasha’s face is innocent but her smile isn’t, and Clint snorts and throws a pen at her.

Bucky’s still stuck on the whole prisoner-volunteer thing; he has to take three deep breaths before he can be sure his voice will stay steady, but then he says, “Shouldn’t we like… call Germany? I’m pretty damn sure that kind of shit’s not supposed to happen.”

Clint must catch something in his voice because he looks up, those evergreen eyes dark and focused. Natasha just shrugs. “Home office deals with that,” she says, not even glancing up from the holo. “I’m sure Pep’s working through it.”

Bucky waits until Clint looks back down at the holo to give in to the urge; he reaches over and rubs at his left bicep with his flesh palm, brusque and brief. It’s not their fault; they don’t know. And it’s not a _thing_ with him anymore, anyway.

“Okay,” he says, deciding to throw himself into it: “So how in the world would Johann Schmidt not get caught at murder?”

Clint blinks up at him, but Bucky shrugs; it’s okay. 

“It looks like Schmidt was looking for brain-altering treatments from the beginning,” Natasha continues. “The three shots to the head could be a superstition, or it could be because he thought other scientists were treating themselves - I mean, he was, why wouldn’t they? - with their own experimental formulations. He might have really thought three shots were needed.”

“The three shots are key,” Clint points out, gesturing at Bucky as if he just walked into the room. “We need to start there, and profile from it.” 

Bucky nods, but then he sits back and watches as Clint and Natasha roll their way through a rapid-fire questionnaire regarding three bullets and the meaning when viewed through this kind of lens. They’re a joy to watch - as they have been for this whole case - but Bucky’s mind feels stuck, most of it wanting to storm something and the rest of it desperately avoiding thinking about that kiss, and it’s an awkward place to feel shuffled into. 

He glances over at Stevie, who’s apparently shooting massive amounts of shit with Tony Stark - which is hilarious, yeah, this will never go away - and then comes back to realize he’s just staring at his palms. One flesh; one metal: it barely even bothers him anymore, but it’s not like it’s helping the case at all.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he tells Clint and Natasha, and goes to take a shower.

\----------

A delivery Thor is calling _Second Lunch!_ has just arrived, and Clint’s famished and exhausted and _angry._ There are too many threads and not enough knots tying them together. It’s like some poorly-written mystery novel, all hints and no clues, and he’s trying really damn hard not to spiral down into the place where all of his doubts live; but it’s hard, because without sleep and a mental break and a distraction he can feel himself slipping.

Apparently, he’s not the only one. Nat pulls him aside as he finishes building a massive sandwich out of pastrami and turkey and cheese more tomatoes than bread - Baltimore roads might be fucking terrible, but the food here is awesome - and before Clint can focus again he’s outside, air on his face. It’s the back deck where he stood with Bucky, talked, smoked cigarettes. His eyes close and his head tilts back, before he’s even thought about it: fresh air on his face. He’s lived in cities forever now, but he’s still a creature of the outdoors.

“Pull yourself out, Clint.” 

He opens his eyes and Nat’s right there with him. She takes his plate and sets it on the ground, reaching up to hold his face in her hands. Clint’s eyes flutter shut again and he lets Tasha hold him, her fingertips shivering against his temples. He’s never trusted anyone like her, and if Nat thinks he’s done, he must be done.

“I should just go back to the hotel, huh.”

“ _Clint,_ ” she says, her fingers gripping tight, and the tone of her voice makes him open his eyes.

Nat’s face is open, vulnerable, in the way she only shows him -- and rarely; Nat uses so much of herself as a cue, as a lead, as bait, but when she needs to get through to Clint she knows nothing hits him more than sincerity. “You’re a fucking idiot,” she tells him, and only Natasha could fill it with such fondness while leaving it scathing.

“Look, Nat, I know I’m starting to spiral, and I know I’m no good when that happens. I should head back, get some sleep, let you guys work for a while.”

“Clinton _Fucking_ Barton,” Tasha says, and she knows his _real_ middle name so Clint knows this is serious. “No. Pull your head out of your ass, and out of this case, and listen to me.”

Clint blinks, surprised, and Nat drops her hands to his shoulders. She’s utterly serious, and utterly unfettered with it. It isn’t like she has to give him a pep talk every case, but she’s seen him at his worst, and Tasha pulls absolutely zero punches when it comes to their work and their well-being.

“You _see better at a distance_.” She enunciates the words at him clearly, slowly, as if his aids aren’t working: Nat knows how much he can hear, and she knows how to make herself heard; Clint’s just glad she’s not signing the words as well. “You’re too caught up. You’re too far _in._ We need you to -- no. _I_ need you to back up, pull yourself out of this, and start looking at it the way you do when you pull some ridiculous hail mary wild-ass guess and end up catching us a serial killer and three petty crooks on the side. I need _you,_ Hawkeye. Stop focusing on the details and figure out the big picture. Pull your head _out_ of your ass and get back in the game.”

“I can always count on you to be gentle,” Clint says to her, but he’s smiling: the first real smile, he thinks, since he woke up this morning with his head in Bucky Barnes’ lap and kissed him, half asleep and dreaming; the first real thing he’s felt since then, since even that kiss was too perfect to be anything but liminal.

“Forest,” Nat says to him.

“Trees,” he says, and pulls her close in a hug, leaning in to kiss her forehead. It’s been their joke since forever: Tasha can’t see the forest for the trees, and Clint can’t see the trees for the forest, but together he’d put them up against any deadly motherfucker the world might want to turn on them and they’d win, laughing, bloody and dying while the entire woods burned.

“I love you,” he says then, because this entire case is making him emotional as fuck and Tasha needs to know it. He should tell her more often, but he can’t always say it: but it’s true, she’s the family he has; she’s his trees, their roots keeping him stable and solid. 

“I don’t hate you,” Nat says into his collarbone. It’s her usual answer, which means everything’s good, and Clint laughs into her hair, into the fresh air, into the afternoon.

———-

1800 rolls around, and Bucky’s simmering with it, absorbing every new piece of information they manage to pull out, when Coulson says, “Alright, _fuck_ it.”

Everyone’s so surprised at Coulson’s language that they pause for a second.

“Look,” Coulson says, running his hands through his close-cropped hair and sighing. “We’re grasping at straws at this point. It’s been days since any of us have gotten a good night’s sleep. If we keep going, we’re going to miss something vital, the way we are now. I don’t want to make a mistake that’s going to send us down the wrong path and cost valuable time.”

Carter, beside him, nods. “We need to break and come back tomorrow morning, refreshed and ready to go. “

“Look,” Coulson says, pinching his nose. “This is my call. If something happens tonight, that’s on me. I’ll accept responsibility. We need to come back to this with fresh eyes. Everybody, head home and get some sleep in your own beds, or at least your own hotel beds.” His grin is weak. “Come back tomorrow morning with some fresh ideas, please.”

“The same applies for my department,” Peggy says, glancing over at Steve, Bucky, and the Howlies who are still here. “We’re no good on an arrest call if we can’t respond appropriately. Rogers, Barnes, I don’t want to see your faces until tomorrow morning. Dugan, Jones, let’s go discuss shifts with the rest of the Commandos.”

The room breaks up into murmured conversation. Bucky glances over at Steve. He can tell Stevie’s ready to collapse in his bed at their apartment and sleep for sixteen hours straight. As usual, Bucky’s too on edge, too punch-drunk on exhaustion. If he goes home now, he won’t do anything but stare at his ceiling. He needs to wind down more slowly.

“Buck.” Steve claps a hand to his shoulder. “It’s no problem. I’ll head home. Just don’t wake me up when you come in.”

“A tornado couldn’t wake you up,” Bucky says, but he impulsively hugs Steve, and then watches him walk out the back door to the parking lot.

Bucky stands there for a minute, resting his hands on his face, eyes closed, breathing deep. He’s moved past exhaustion, onto a second - third - twelfth wind, and it’s jittery in his palms. 

“Hey,” says a voice at his shoulder. Of course it’s Clint. “You know somewhere a guy can get a burger and a beer near our hotel?”

Bucky drops his hands. Clint looks - actually, Clint looks like Bucky feels, too wired and strung out to sleep. He offers a crooked smile. Behind Clint, he sees Natasha helping Coulson pack up the papers strewn across the room; Thor actually has a sleeping Tony tossed over his shoulder, and Bruce is collecting the myriad devices Tony has been using.

“Too tired to sleep?” Bucky offers.

Clint laughs. “Yeah, I’m… Tasha can drop on a moment’s notice, but after a certain point, I can’t. I need to ...pull my head out of this case, before I’m going to get any kind of sleep.”

“I hear you,” Bucky says, shaking his head in commiseration. “Burger and a beer, you say? There’s a little hole in the wall not far from here, on the way to your hotel. If you want company.”

He says the last hesitantly, aware of the implications, but there’s really nothing in Clint’s eyes except relief. “Hell yes,” he says. “Please. Take me to the promised land.”


	7. Thursday

It’s a short walk; the BAU is holed up in the hotel closest to HQ, which makes perfect sense. They walk in silence, occasionally bumping shoulders but mostly breathing in the evening’s air, trying to breathe out the case. After a block or two, Bucky ducks into a side alley, and opens the door to the Dugout.

“Relief awaits,” he says, with a flourish of a hand gesture, and Clint snorts as he walks in.

The Dugout is an honest hole in the wall, which is Bucky’s favorite kind of place. The first floor is the bar and restaurant; there’s a dance club on the second floor, which sounds incongruent, but Bucky always finds something soothing about the hollow bass of the beats reverberating through the building, down to the bar, as if they’re the slow pulse of something alive in the walls. Baltimore has old roots, and the Dugout has been here for over fifty years: it’s one of the things he likes about it.

He walks Clint up to the bar and takes his favorite seat, at the corner, where he can see most of the TVs but his back isn’t to the door. Clint takes the seat at the other side of the corner, so that they’re somewhat facing each other. It’s nice and casual. Bucky flicks two fingers with a smile, and the bartender pulls two beers off of draft and brings them over. 

“Bucky Barnes,” says Nora, grinning. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. Thought you got shot.”

“Not me, doll.” He grins back at her. Nora’s about ten years older than he, looks twelve, and has more tattoos than all of the Howling Commandos combined. She’s Bucky’s favorite bartender here. “Can we get some menus?”

“Of course, sugar.” Nora reaches below the bar and sets two on the bar top. “Who’s the friend?”

“Clint Barton, ma’am,” Clint says, his smile turned all the way up to _charming little shit_ , which Bucky finds incredibly amusing. “Only in town for a bit, sadly.”

“Clint,” Nora repeats, a twinkle in her eye. “That’s a new one.”

“Short for Clinton,” Bucky says quickly, before Clint can punch him on the arm for it.

“I’m sorry, honey, but I can't call you that.” Nora shakes her head. “Clint it is.”

She walks away to check on the other end of the bar. Clint skims the menu, then nudges Bucky. “What’s good here?”

Bucky grins. “So, I made an assumption that by ‘good’ you mean ‘the most gratuitous burger in Baltimore’, rather than like, Tony Stark fifty dollar meal ‘good’.” When Clint grins in response, he continues: “So in that case, the burgers are fucking sloppy pieces of heaven. Pizza’s pretty good as well. I mean, everything’s good, as long as you don’t turn up your nose at a bar fryer.”

“I fucking live in a bar fryer,” Clint says absently, eyeing the menu again.

By the time Nora comes back, they’ve drained their first beers. She refills them while Bucky orders the patty melt and Clint orders some customized monstrosity of a burger loaded with, like, twelve things. Bucky gets fries and onion rings to split, cause why not. There’s a 50/50 chance he can bill this to Carter as entertainment budget.

They sip their refilled beers in silence, until Clint’s head sags forward slowly and he brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “ _Fuck,”_ he says, quietly, and then turns to look up at Bucky. “Thanks for this. I usually need to wind down, but most of the time I have to do it by myself.”

“Natasha?” Bucky asks, pulling at his beer. From what he’s seen, they’re pretty damn close.

Clint laughs. “Everybody on the team deals with this shit in different ways. Nat’s great at compartmentalizating. She just segregates everything, gets on with it, and processes it all later when it’s over.” He sighs, and rubs the back of his neck again. “I can’t. I always need some kind of distraction - somebody, something, blow off some steam. If I don’t, I get.” He takes a long pull of his beer and looks over at Bucky. “I get stuck in my own head. Real bad.”

Bucky hums. He’s been there before, sure. He’s also done the opposite, blocked things out long enough that they become their own little separate thing in his head. He feels like he gets stuck in his own head all the fucking time, but he doesn’t know how to say that. Finally he offers, “Anyone who works the jobs we do, getting stuck in your own head’s a pretty shitty place to be.”

“Ha,” Clint barks. “See, you get it. Figured as much.” He lifts his glass to toast Bucky. He has a faint line of foam on his upper lip. Bucky tries valiantly to ignore it.

They sit in silence. Clint’s already drained his second beer, and Bucky does the same: it isn’t competitiveness, it’s more the feeling of… wanting to be on equal ground? He isn’t entirely sure. He feels like, if they keep pace, neither one of them is giving up any kind of advantage. He isn’t sure why it matters. Bucky doesn’t get drunk very quickly, and after a quick assessment of Clint’s body type and the casual way he’s lounging, assumes Clint doesn’t either.

“So, you and Steve,” Clint says eventually, when Nora brings their refills. “Served together?”

“Grew up together,” Bucky chuckles. “We’ve known each other forever. Came out of high school and decided to enlist. Poor as fuck, you realize, and Stevie was a pretty sick kid to boot.” He shrugs, grinning. “You wouldn’t know it now, looking at him. The Army regimen was amazing. Turned him around. Before they started training, he could barely stand up straight, let alone run miles.”

“You’re kidding me,” Clint breathes. “Detective Rogers of the broadest shoulders I’ve seen since Thor? No way.”

“Yes way. Skinnier than me, but determined as hell. No one was expecting it when he came out of basic training looking like a goddamned god. Least of all me.”

“How did you end up enlisted together?” Clint asks. He’s grabbed a straw and is gnawing on it. It’s very distracting.

“Luck and a lot of whining,” Bucky says, laughing at the memory. “Eventually they gave up and assigned us together just to shut us up.”

Clint’s mouth twitches, but as he’s chewing on the straw, looking down at his beer, he looks pensive. “I can’t imagine having a friend from that long ago,” he says, and his voice is completely different.

“He’s like my brother,” Bucky says, careful now. “Been friends long enough that we can live together without wanting to kill each other.” He pauses. “Nobody like that on your team?”

Clint shrugs, and for a second he looks like he’s closing off. Then Nora walks over, a number of baskets in her hands; she deposits their burgers in front of them and sets the fried goodness between them. “Anything else, gents?” She asks.

“Hey,” Bucky says, smooth and easy. “Shots of whiskey. Make ‘em doubles.”

As Nora walks away, Clint glances over, through his eyelashes. The look makes Bucky shiver. “Shots?”

“We’re here to relax, ain’t we?” Bucky shrugs.

Clint picks up an onion ring, contemplates it. “How’d you know I’m a whiskey kind of guy?”

Bucky laughs, ringing out through the bar. “Oh mighty profiler,” he intones, “can’t take a dose of your own medicine?”

Clint blinks, and then he laughs: really laughs, _hard,_ to the point that they’re both giggling and stupid when Nora brings the shots over, and they clink them together and down them almost in unison.

From there, the night is much easier.

Bucky asks about the BAU team. Clint fills in details in-between making grotesque orgasmic sounds about his burger. He learns that they’re a separate unit within the FBI, that there are still arguments about their validity even after thirty-some years in operation, that Fury constantly has to defend their existence to some Board somewhere, citing facts about the number of serial killers they’ve stopped, using projections of future kills, something that makes him and Clint both shiver.

Bucky’s been trying to drop subtle clues but he thinks that maybe subtle isn’t a great approach to Clint Barton. “Tell me about the _people_ ,” he says as an opening, trying not to whine. “Y’all seem pretty close.”

“Tasha,” Clint starts; “Tasha and I met long before either of us went legit. We were both - well.” He takes a giant swallow of what might be their fourth beer. “I have some shit on my record I’m not proud of,” and he looks up at Bucky through his lashes and Bucky reaches out, a hand on his shoulder, cause it’s not like he gives a fuck. “So does Tasha. We met when we were trying to make it right. Luckily Coulson found us before some other alternative did.”

He learns that Natasha is Clint’s Steve: sibling, best friend, protector and protected. He also learns that Coulson was their savior: looked at the duo and saw something skilled, something with potential, and offered them a deal with the BAU in return for clemency. Reading between the lines, Bucky thinks maybe Coulson is Clint’s Peggy: someone who saw what they could do together and then _held them to it like a standard_ , knowing there was something special in the potential held between them. He says something of the sort to Clint, hoping his explanation is sufficient. 

“Yeah, I never looked back, man.” Clint’s face is somewhat flushed. “Nat and I, we, well.” He finishes the beer. “We’ve got marks in our ledgers. This is a way to make up for it.”

“Kay,” Bucky says, keeping it light and cheerful. This is meant to relax them both; he doesn’t want to dig into Clint’s dirty laundry. What an awful phrase that is. “The hell is up with Thor?”

“Thor’s different,” Clint says, laughing, as Nora brings them refills and clears the baskets. “He’s on loan for a two-year stint, to learn how we manage things. He’ll move on to some other department, then. I don’t even remember where he’s from or what department he started in, cause he moves around a _lot_ to get exposure.”

“The way he _talks,_ though,” Bucky prompts.

Clint laughs. “He’s strange, sure, but he’s really awesome. Super awesome. He knows _exactly_ how to appeal to people, and he’s so smart nobody realizes he’s figured you out until it’s way too late.” He chews the last onion ring sadly. “Plus I don’t know how he’s so large.”

At some point Bucky orders another basket of fries, cause they’re literally licking the crumbs from the onion rings. Nora brings them over along with another shot, which she claims is on the bar because they’re being amusing, and neither of them argue.

“Banner,” Clint says. At this point he’s a little flushed and his gates have been thrown open. He’s tilted towards Bucky across the corner of the bar, body language open and inviting. Bucky can’t help leaning in; he’s buzzing quite pleasantly, and if he knocks his knee against Clint every now and then, it’s a friendly gesture, for grounding.

Bucky’s a little surprised that there’s none of the fiery tension between them: the flirty atmosphere, the sharp edges they’d been trading before the case had gone downhill. But this scene is friendly - maybe not totally platonic, but it doesn’t have the risky overtones their interactions had before.

He convinces himself he isn’t remembering Clint kissing him.

“Banner’s a goddamn certified genius, you know.” Clint waves in the air with his hand, something too vague to be sign. “He has like, seven PhDs, three of them in fields I can’t even pronounce. He has an eidetic memory. He can read at a speed of like a gazillion words a second. I don’t even know how he exists.”

“So how did he end up on the team?” Bucky asks, but he’s also feeding Clint a French fry, because it amuses him to do so. He feeds Clint three more before he pauses and allows him to answer.

“Banner,” Clint says in a loud whisper, glancing around for effect; “Banner has a temper. I heard that four or five universities kicked him out because he wouldn’t play along with the usual rules of how they get funding. By the time Phil crossed his path, he was getting desperate. He wants his work to be used for good things, only, and I’ve heard the rant enough times to be able to be able to repeat the part about how universities only want fame and funding.” He picks up a fry and eats it. “Phil offered him a professor’s salary, access to the FBI’s research labs, and a chance to catch assholes and make the world a better place. Banner took it.”

Bucky’s beer is full again; so is Clint’s. Neither of them is in danger territory, it seems; Bucky’s body weight gives him some advantage, and since Clint’s taller than him, it’s probably the same. He assumes Nora is watching, but he also gives her a nod, to confirm that they’re still alright to drink; the last thing he wants to do is cross a line, either for Nora or for Clint.

“The thing with Stark,” Clint continues, and then pauses. “You might remember, depending on where you were stationed at the time. Stark got kidnapped, it was in the news, you remember?”

Bucky remembers, vaguely, some headlines, something he didn’t pay much attention to. Stevie was still putting newspapers in his shoes. The existence of billionaires wasn’t something he could really comprehend.

“So, the whole thing is Stark’s story, and I’m not enough of an asshole to betray that,” Clint says. He feeds Bucky a fry, smothered in ketchup, but Bucky eats it anyway. “Thing is, he came back not really fit for any kind of… active duty.” Clint laughs bitterly and shrugs. “So Tony, he decides he’s gonna revamp all of Stark fuckin’ Industries afterward, and while he does it he starts looking into why it took the government so damn long to figure out he was missing and being experimented on.”

Bucky coughs on his beer. “Shit,” he says, “he’s alright now?” He’s come to appreciate Tony Stark. He’s ridiculous, much too smart, certifiably crazy, but he’s also a pretty good guy _and_ he makes Stevie laugh. Being a POW who got worked over experimentally in captivity leans a little _too_ close to all the issues Bucky’s reminding himself he already worked through and is thus ignoring. Even with as enjoyable as this evening is, the _last_ thing he wants to do is get into that shit -- but he can be sympathetic towards Stark, certainly, without losing his equilibrium. 

“Well.” Clint shrugs. He feeds Bucky another fry. This one has been coated in malt vinegar and Bucky starts hacking while Clint chuckles under his breath. “He started to get into the science of it, and cause Tones is an engineer and a genius as well as an asshole, he immediately decides everything’s two decades behind and regears Stark Industries towards tech and communications with a focus on high-level computational algorithms.”

“Is that JARVIS?” Bucky asks.

Clint _giggles._ “JARVIS isn’t available on the market. Word is, Stark literally had a butler growing up named Jarvis, and that’s his personal AI network.”

“The fuck?” Bucky’s laughing now, too, and he dodges the next fry Clint tries to feed him. “So how does the BAU have it?”

Clint shrugs, again, and eats the fry he’s been chasing Bucky’s face with. “So while he was rebuilding SI, Tony stayed interested in the technology used to chase down crimes. And I guess at some point he approached Phil and basically offered a trade: his tech, and future development, for a place on the team. Thing is,” he continues, “Tony still can’t get cleared for action. So Phil has the genius idea of making Tony our press liaison, in addition to our main techie. It lets Tony travel with the team, which is what he wants, without making him a liability in the field.”

“So is he still running a company and the BAU is, like, a day job?” Bucky is sure there’s a better way to ask but he’s enjoying this safe space, this bubble of intimacy between him and Clint, and he’s afraid if he puts too much thought into it the bubble will break.

“Oh, it’s complicated,” Clint says with a laugh. “Tones is still an owner and on the board and the guy who approves the money, but he’s appointed a CEO and a CFO and a bunch of other staff members who keep it going while he helps a governmental law enforcement agency upgrade.” Clint shrugs. “I don’t even know, man. It seems a lot to juggle, but the man constantly runs on caffeine and profanity, whether we have a case or not, so I dunno.”

Bucky drains his glass, only now realizing it’s empty. He props his head up on his fist, looking at Clint. Somehow, he isn’t tired yet. In the back of his head, he knows he should be, but Clint’s presence — it’s energizing, stimulating, and the thing is that Bucky feels more clear-headed than he has in days.

He only realizes that he’s smiling fondly at Clint, no filter left, when the man meets his eyes and licks his lips. It’s probably subliminal. Bucky can feel the pounding from the beat upstairs, he can feel his blood roaring, and he can feel Clint’s eyes on him. 

“Tired?” Clint asks, and his voice is low, husky.

“Not yet,” Bucky replies, and surprisingly his voice is the same: low and rough.

“I need,” Clint says, and to Bucky’s surprise he fists his hands in his hair, briefly, before scrubbing the back of his neck. “I gotta wear myself out or I’m never gonna sleep. What’s that club like?”

Bucky blinks. “Different every night,” he says. He can’t even remember what day it is. Thursday? There’s a classic rock night, a ladies’ night, a techno night. “We might be the oldest people up there.”

Clint bursts out laughing, and he slides off of his stool, coming to stand close to Bucky.

“Like I said,” he starts, and then rubs a hand over his face. “I can’t—” He scrubs his face with both hands, and Bucky reaches up to grab his wrists, pulling them away from his face. “Look,” Clint says, the beginnings of an actual genuine smile on his face. “I need to get up there and shake off some of this energy.” He ducks his head and then looks up again. “It’d be nice if you wanna come with, just so I’m not the only old man on the dance floor.”

Bucky realizes that this is the point where he should take stock of his own situation, but he honestly does not give any fucks anymore. The beat is deep, drawing him in, as is Clint’s face; the surface tension may have dissolved under the weight of the case, but Bucky feels something simmering low in his gut, and that’s what convinces him.

“Nora!” He calls. “Lemme cash out, we’re off upstairs.”

Clint watches him the entire time as Nora brings the bill over. Bucky puts it on his department card; he’s totally willing to fight Carter over it. Tomorrow. Some time he’s not hungover. Whenever. He tips Nora generously, because that’s how the Dugout works, and then turns and holds out a hand. 

Bucky leads Clint upstairs. 

—————

The club upstairs is everything Clint was hoping for. It’s dark, with strobe lights flashing in a rainbow of colors, the kind of open dance floor he loves. Lasers and patterns flash inconsistently across the space. There’s another bar tucked in the corner, and the DJ station opposite. They’re playing some absurd mix of R&B dance with hard rock bangers, and it’s so stupid, cause it’s right at the place where Clint lives, between hard guitar solos and electronic drum beats. He turns his aids down, but not off: the overwhelming hum is one of the things he’s _looking_ for.

He weaves into the crowd immediately, leaving all of his shame and decency behind, focusing on just moving to the music. He feels Bucky tighten his grip around his wrist, and Clint grins, tugging the other man with him, wanting to find that point, that center, surrounded by darkness: flashes of light, bodies moving, and the music, the music, pounding and rhythmic.

There’s a point within a crowd on the dance floor where nothing matters. Individual bodies become parts of a whole; dancing skill means fuckall as long as you’re _moving,_ a giant living creature en masse moving to the throbbing beat. That’s what Clint looks for when he’s dancing: that center, where he can discard and forget his individuality, his own identity, and become part of the flow of the music and bodies as long as he needs. It’s just darkness, and flashes of laser-light, and warmth from other people getting as lost as Clint wants.

Once his eyes open, Clint has subconsciously taken stock of the dance floor, and it’s working. While he and Barnes might be the oldest, they also might not be; the crowd looks thirties and twenties, mostly, nothing he’s self-conscious about. He’s in the middle of a group of people, Bucky included, and his arms are in the air and his hips are moving with the rumbling bass, the heartbeat of the concrete and brick around them, and Clint shuts his eyes again and just lets _go._

He moves through dance partners, he can tell: hands on him, his eyes flickering open occasionally. There are enough people on the dance floor who are here to have fun; there’s no draw, no expectation, no one looking to make any shitty kind of hook-up connection. It’s just people, dancing, and all the touches are friendly, not invasive. Clint fucking loves it. He’s moving, there’s a beat, the general camaraderie of other people who are just looking to move and have a good time.

The lasers are flickering a pattern over the floor and he sees Barnes, one hand clutched in his hair and the other extended upwards, eyes mostly closed. Flickering blue light outlines angles: his wrist; his jawline; the smiling curve of his lips. Clint realizes belatedly that Barnes has pulled his hair out of its hairband, mostly by the way his hands run through it, forward over his face and then back. _Fuck,_ he isn't sure he’s ever seen anything so baseline fucking _sensual_ before; Bucky’s moves are organic, raw, both hands running through his hair and down his own face, before they make erotic motions in the air and come back: tracing his shoulders, his own arms, the waist of the person standing in front of him. 

Clint is boiling, _roiling,_ watching Bucky Barnes move between flashes of strobe light: arms in the air; fingers weaving symbols; then his hands in his hair, dragging it down his cheeks, face tipped upwards, throat bare and vulnerable.

Clint isn’t even sure what actually happens, except that suddenly he’s there, his hand on Bucky’s waist, tugging him in. He runs his other hand up the side of Bucky’s ribs, and he’s rewarded when Bucky’s eyes open, wide and aroused, and he takes all of Clint in, his mouth open as if he’s going to speak prophecy.

Instead, Bucky’s hands twine themselves around Clint’s neck, fingers instantly brushing into Clint’s hair - Clint can feel the slight chill of the metal hand - and he takes a step forward so his body is pressing against Clint’s. Bucky’s hands then lift into the air, his eyes closed and mouth open, ghosting words across Clint’s collarbone. His wrists entangle, high above Clint’s head. His head tips backward, just slightly, neck beating with his pulse.

Clint sets one hand in the small of Bucky’s back, warm and hard, and the other hand traces up, grazing past his face with the lightest of touches, working its way into the tangle of hair Bucky has released. Bucky makes some kind of whining noise that Clint can’t really hear but _feels_ like a purr _,_ pressed up against his chest with Bucky’s forearms wound around his neck. 

His hand is entwined with Bucky’s hair at the base of his skull, and he tugs Bucky’s head back, setting his lips along the line of Bucky’s throat, his collarbone, the tendon where neck meets shoulder. Clint wants to taste them all, and he does, the rasp of stubble a joy against his lips, the drag of it making him slow, taking his time, his tongue tracking the dip of Bucky’s throat upwards, to the edge of his jaw.

Bucky makes another noise, deep in his throat, that Clint _feels_ rather than hears. His hand clenches at Bucky’s lower back, and Bucky just _sinks_ deeper into him, hands and hips slotting in against Clint’s body like a uniform tailored to fit, and Clint clutches him close while Bucky tips his head in against Clint’s collarbone, breathing moisture on it, both of his hands splayed across Clint’s back.

Even this sway is a spark; it’s as if they’re both pulling the other tighter, until there’s no space to fit: until Bucky’s face is panting into Clint’s neck, his leg thrust between Clint’s, a slow hot grind between them, both of them hard and moving with it, wanting more resistance, more friction, more closeness—

At some point Bucky gasps, and pulls his head back far enough to look Clint in the eyes. Clint’s almost too far gone at that point; his fingers trace Bucky’s temple, his cheekbone, brush past his lips. He’ll stop; he can; he will; he’s not stupid, and Bucky’s a gem, and he’s not gonna fuck this up.

Bucky looks up at him for one moment with eyes unfettered: there’s want there, lust, appreciation, but something else, a level of connection. He hauls in a hard breath, breathes it out against Clint’s cheekbone.

Clint pauses. This is the most important.

Bucky blinks up at him - Clint hadn’t realized how much taller he was until now, looking down into that flushed face - and smiles, wide and open and utterly irresistible. Clint’s hands are frozen, but Bucky’s aren’t: his real hand sweeps his dark hair out of his face, tugging at it as he pulls it down, that hand unconsciously tracing down his chest before it stops.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, and then both of his palms are on Clint’s face, both of them warmed, Bucky’s fingers working their way into his hair even as Bucky pulls him forward. “I want to take you home right now,” Bucky murmurs, and Clint groans and folds, all resistance having vanished.

His lips descend on Bucky’s with the pull of a magnet, Bucky’s hands in his short hair tugging him forward, sharply, a low-ebbing pain that puts Clint on edge, his nerves seeking the stimulation. He kisses Bucky like the goddamn world is ending, like they’re the only two people left; and Bucky kisses back, moaning into his mouth, fisting his hands in Clint’s hair as if he’s completely in charge and tilting Clint’s mouth until Bucky’s lips and tongue are angled directly against his: and Clint loses what feels like hours against this kiss. It alternates, as Bucky shifts his hands and his focus, and Clint simultaneously feels in control and then _plundered,_ Bucky’s mouth pressing him to limits he hadn’t been aware of until pushed up against it by the thickness of the beat and the heat of Bucky’s body against his. 

Clint cannot help his hands at this point, since every breath Bucky has exhaled sounds like _yes;_ and he’s locked into the small of Bucky’s back with one hand. The other absolutely cannot resist Bucky’s hair, tangling in it and pulling, and Bucky breathes harder every time he does it, each time Clint’s lips brush throat and collarbone before coming back to pull against Bucky’s mouth, dragging out a myriad of sounds he feels rather than hears, the tremors he can feel in Bucky’s skin. This is the fracture that creates an earthquake; this is the first step to an apocalypse, and Clint pulls Bucky’s head back until he can ravage Bucky’s mouth, relentless, swallowing the noises he can’t hear against the throbbing heart of the club and the thud of Bucky’s pulse pressed against his own.

He’s stopped to suck a bruise into Bucky’s pulse point, his mouth lipping at it while Bucky spews some kind of expletives into the ceiling of the club, their hips still interlocked in a way that makes Clint burn with the inevitability. His tongue wanders down the sweat of Bucky’s skin, and suddenly Bucky’s strong hands are clutching him upright, leaving him poised over Bucky’s face but frozen with the force of his trembling fingers. His eyes are blown open with desire, a look that makes Clint choke on his inhale. He’s sure his own face looks similar, but seeing the raw reflection in Bucky’s gaze - in his tendons, the twitch of his mouth, the bruise at his throat - gives him pause, and he swallows any words, looking again into Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky hauls in an entire mouthful of air, then expels it, his eyes closed. Clint watches every inch of it, unable to look away from the glisten of sweat and the tension of desire. Around them, the dance floor continues: dark, beating, moving.

Bucky breathes again, releasing it in a gasp, and then brings Clint’s head down until their foreheads meet. It’s close enough for Clint to taste Bucky’s breath, but they don’t kiss, just stand there breathing each other’s air. Clint feels hollow, having paused for this grounding point, and he isn’t quite sure what to say. He _wants_ , gaping and open.

“ _Fuck,”_ Bucky breathes into his mouth, open-lipped and messy, and every time their lips brush there’s the pull to turn it into a kiss, sloppy and fierce, and Clint’s resisting that at the same time that his body is trying to pull Bucky into more. “Clint,” Bucky says, desperate, and Clint just pulls him forward, slotting his lips down onto Bucky’s mouth and breathing chapters of his own story down into Bucky’s lungs.

When Bucky breaks away, it’s for breath, not for space, and his mouth is at Clint’s temple, his cheekbone, his earlobe. He pulls away just far enough that his fists can tug into Clint’s shirt, pulling him to order, and he says, honesty writ in the lines of his mouth: “ _Fuck,_ come home with me, it’s worth the train, I swear, I want you.”

Clint breathes against it, and then lights up; descends on Barnes, hands bracing his face, sprawled open against the back of his head, his tongue tracing paths into Bucky’s mouth he wants to trace again later, to follow, and only when he knows that Bucky is overwhelmed and voiceless does he pull away, to tug Bucky’s hair in his fingers until the man is looking up at him, the want in his eyes echoing the pull in Clint’s heart.

“Why don’t I take you back to mine,” Clint murmurs.

————-

Bucky Barnes is on fire.

He isn’t drunk, or at least not from cheap beer and bourbon: he’s fucking drunk on Clint Barton’s lips, the man’s hands in his hair, the lines of his shoulders and the noises he makes when Bucky traces his fingers up Clint’s chest. 

He’s fairly sure neither of them paid any attention to the walk back to the hotel; he remembers Clint babbling something about Natasha bunking elsewhere when he goes out, and he was trying to listen but his eyes were on Clint’s lips, feeling the distance, feeling the pull. All he knows is that the door’s closed, and he’s shoving Clint up against it, tugging his face down and mauling his mouth while Clint’s hands scrabble at the buttons of the shirt he’s wearing. It’s the case, it’s the stress, it’s the lack of sleep, it’s something Bucky hasn’t ever felt: this _want_ , it’s a flood and he’s drowning in it. 

Thank fuck Clint’s only in a t-shirt. Bucky fumbles his hands at the hem and then he’s running his palms up, along the hard planes of Clint’s abs and chest. God, there’s fucking _angles_ to those muscles - Bucky always thought he and Stevie were doing alright, but the FBI regimen must be _sick._ Clint _hisses_ as his hands rasp up past a nipple and Bucky just gasps, “Off, now, _Christ_ ,” and pulls the t-shirt up, making Clint laugh as he pulls back and shucks the shirt somewhere across the room. 

_Jesus._ Clint’s hands are through with the buttons and he’s shoving the shirt down Bucky’s arms, tugging, his mouth hot and insistent against Bucky’s as he uses the motion to propel them forward in the room. Two beds, both equally messy, but Clint steers them unerringly to one and Bucky peels the shirt off of his wrists.

He looks at Clint: he’s breathing hard, his mouth a smudge, his eyes dark. Bucky has to reach out to touch; Clint’s shoulders are sharp, and Bucky trails his fingers from Clint’s collarbone down his bicep, to grasp at his wrist. 

“You can say something about it,” he says, his voice low, “if you need to.”

Bucky never _forgets_ his prosthetic arm. It’s always hurting, but also, always different: different sensations between his hands, different tension in his shoulders, different range of motion — but it’s been a long time since he’s been distracted enough, comfortable enough, whatever, to not be _self-conscious_ about it, to the point that it took until Clint pulled his shirt off for Bucky to remember that sometimes people get a little weird about it.

“What?” Clint says, a bit dumbly, and he reaches out to take Bucky by the shoulders - both shoulders, metal and flesh, and runs his hands down to Bucky’s elbows like he doesn’t even care, barely even sees it. Bucky waits for him to say something. “I need,” Clint starts, and then has to take a long breath. 

“I need you like a thousand percent more naked and all over me,” Clint says finally with a crooked grin, shrugging, the grin turning hot and dark.

Bucky loses some time then as Clint pushes him down onto the bed, climbs up over him, kissing him with abandon as their legs tangle; Bucky has one leg wrapped around Clint’s hip, the other somehow caught at Clint’s ankle. He has no idea and doesn’t care because Clint’s hips are moving against him, slowly, too slow, and Bucky’s left trying to grind up against him while his hands are still clutching at the planes of Clint’s back.

Clint himself has some sort of obsession with Bucky’s neck and collarbone, which is fine, Bucky loves that, his tongue against the stubble of his jawline, rough and dragging. He can’t stop the noises, moans he wants to be embarrassed about but isn’t because Clint chases them down, from his lips to his throat, and fuck, he wants this man’s mouth everywhere on his body.

His hands are fighting to slip between them, trying to get to the button of Clint’s jeans; Bucky hooks his fingers behind the hemline, against Clint’s hips, and pulls. Clint moans at it, into his shoulder, and Bucky struggles to push him up so that he can get his fucking pants off. Finally, they’re sitting, and Bucky undoes the button, unzips the fly, and then rubs the back of his hand slowly along the length of Clint’s dick, outlined sharply under his boxers. Clint fucking _shudders._

“What do you want?” Bucky murmurs at him, repeating the motion and watching Clint’s eyes flutter: he’s so fucking _sensitive_ and god, Bucky wants that cock in his mouth yesterday — but he takes his time, knuckles now starting a slow rhythm along the underside, sliding slowly to the tip. There’s already a wet spot. Bucky wants to taste it.

Eventually, Clint draws in a haggard breath. “Shit, Buck,” he manages to gasp out. “It’s a hell of a list.”

“Well.” Bucky hums, and slides his hand beneath the waistband of Clint’s boxers, letting his fingers finally touch Clint’s dick, teasing his touch to the tip and back down. He leans in, mouths at Clint’s jaw, and then whispers: “What would you _like_?”

Clint’s eyes flare dark and wide with desire, and he swallows, reaching out for Bucky’s fly. “You,” he says finally, carefully undoing the button. They’re both kneeling, Bucky’s thigh between Clint’s, and Clint’s knobby fingers, calloused fingertips, wrap against Bucky’s cock and _fuck,_ Bucky thrusts up against it instinctively, intensely, _wanting._

There’s a pause where they look at each other: both panting, eyes wide, and that inevitable pull between them. Then it’s a mad scramble: both of them trying to undress the other, hands _everywhere_ ; Clint almost falling off of the bed, which would make Bucky laugh, except that he comes up from it gloriously naked and Bucky can’t fucking move for a second. Clint’s abs fade into a trail of hair and his cock is flushed, hard, curved up towards his stomach like a bow. It’s solid, large, and Bucky honestly can’t help himself as he leans forward and licks up the underside, then cranes his head to look up at Clint.

Clint growls deep in his throat, looking down at Bucky with dark eyes. He slowly moves his hands into Bucky’s hair, tangling his fingers: moving, but not tugging, making the gesture a question and not a command. 

“Academy has testing every month,” Bucky says softly. It’s procedure, and available to everyone. Bucky takes part.

“FBI’s the same,” Clint answers, breathless. “We’re good?”

Bucky leans forward again, shifting the rest of his body on the bed as he tastes the tip; Clint’s kneeling on the bed, and Bucky can feel him shudder, which is the _best_ thing: making him, this profiler, this stranger, so sensitive. He runs his tongue around the tip, licks at the underside, and then wraps his lips around Clint’s cock. The noise Clint makes as he slowly slides his mouth down, moving his tongue as he swallows, goes right to Bucky’s dick, still pressed in his jeans: a long, low, groan, almost filthy; anyone else who heard it would know exactly what was going on.

Clint’s hands are still in his hair, pressing but not pushing; apparently, Clint can’t help his fingers clenching when Bucky pulls off of his dick and then swallows him back down in one smooth motion. Fuck, Bucky loves that sensation, someone needing to hold on while _he’s_ making them feel too much, _he’s_ in control. He brings up his hand to grip the base of Clint’s cock while he starts using his tongue on the underside, sucking in his cheeks, still moving as slow as he can keep himself. Clint’s swearing up a storm above him, breathless, little moans coming out occasionally when Bucky sucks hard and deep. The sensation of Clint in his mouth, heavy on his tongue: Bucky spends a few seconds just sliding the head in and out of his mouth, to feel the ridge catch and pop on his lips every time, and Clint’s hands are tight in his hair as he carefully tugs Bucky away.

“Don’t be so selfish,” Clint says, his voice a low rasp. “It’s my turn.”

He pushes Bucky over with surprising strength, then climbs up him like a fucking tree, lips and hands trailing fire across Bucky’s skin. He can feel the weight of Clint’s cock through his pants, against his own, and he reaches down to take his fucking jeans off and get with the program, but: Clint’s hands are already there, and Clint holds them in place while slowly tracing the stubble on Bucky’s neck, down to flick his tongue against Bucky’s nipple. Bucky arches under him, the touch sending sparks down the base of his spine. Clint hums, pleased, and proceeds to lick and suck at the other nipple until Bucky’s writhing underneath him.

“Sure,” he pants out, “take your fuckin’ time, why don’t you.”

Clint laughs wet against his skin, his mouth moving down to lick up Bucky’s ribs, then across his belly-button, then to bite at his hipbone; he’s sliding Bucky’s pants down slowly, tracking the revealed skin with tongue and teeth. Bucky’s frantic, the lightest touch from Clint sparking fireworks, down into his groin. He doesn’t think he’s ever been harder in his life.

Clint finally pulls his clothes down far enough to free his aching dick, and Bucky moans out loud as it springs free from his waistband, his hips hitching upwards and looking for any kind of touch, pressure, some kind of relief. At this point, of course, motherfucking Clint takes the time to tug his clothes completely off, tossing pants and boxers on the floor.

Clint comes back to hover over Bucky, kneeling between Bucky’s knees, and his eyes are _hungry_ as they take in Bucky’s cock, his chest, up to his face. His gaze is heavy. Bucky feels torn open, ultra-aware of his own want and all of the places Clint isn’t touching him.

All Clint says is, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

He bends in to kiss Bucky again, and Bucky pulls him up and closer: he wants Clint’s skin on his, the weight of Clint’s body, the hard heat of his cock against Bucky’s. He catches Clint’s lip in his teeth, leading Clint to groan and duck his head, completely ravaging Bucky’s mouth. For long minutes, the world is Clint’s tongue and breaths, his hands on Clint’s back, warmth between his legs, and Bucky is lost in the haze of it, searching and scrabbling in arousal.

There’s a point where he’s flipped them over, letting his own body bear down on Clint’s hard muscle, hips thrusting almost idly against the crease of Clint’s groin, spending his time licking every single bit of skin he can reach, sucking a bruise into the curve of his bicep, and when he comes back to lick into Clint’s mouth, Clint murmurs something, and Bucky hums at him, moves his mouth to suck on Clint’s earlobe instead, carefully avoiding the hearing aid.

“You,” Clint whispers, Bucky’s teeth pulling the skin taut before licking it: “Fuck me. That’s what I want.”

Bucky jerks upright, his face hovering over Clint’s, his eyes wide, and for a second his hips are rocking against Clint’s despite the fact that he’s frozen, his mind blown, because, _fuck._

“Yes?” Clint says, smirking up at him, arching his hips into Bucky’s and making him temporarily black out. “That seems like a yes.”

Bucky holds Clint down by the shoulders and grinds into him, filthy, mouth on the tendon between neck and shoulder, until Clint’s panting in the back of his throat; and only then Bucky asks, “What do you have on hand?”

“G’na kill me, Barnes,” Clint manages. “Gotta fuckin - lemme up —“

“Not yet,” and Bucky presses back down, all of his weight on Clint, because all of this skin is bare and available, and _fuck,_ this was nothing he’d ever expected tonight, but somehow exactly what he fucking needed, his own desire wanting to clutch at every inch of Clint, swallow him in, take everything he has to offer.

Clint surges up, flips Bucky off, and clumsily falls off the bed, fumbling across the floor until he reaches a duffel bag that has definitely seen better days. Something hits the bed by the pillows, and then a bottle flies at his face, which Bucky catches at the last second while Clint’s scrambling back onto the bed, climbing halfway up his body before stopping abruptly.

“Of course you pack lube,” he gets out as Clint stops to run his tongue slowly across Bucky’s balls, and then words are difficult because Clint’s mouth is working at that tender skin, gentle but frantic. Bucky has to close his eyes, clenching, as Clint’s tongue moves over to lick the base of his cock, licking up the length, and Bucky’s prosthetic hand is in Clint’s hair, and he’s shaking, trying desperately not to hold Clint in place and thrust up into his mouth.

“Fuck, _shit_ , Bucky,” and Clint sounds absolutely _wrecked,_ hoarse and low with desire, and Bucky opens his eyes to see his hand in Clint’s hair, and Clint’s eyes closed, as if he _wants_ that push, that tug, and the thought of that — for a second Bucky has to look away before he comes all over Clint’s face.

“I didn’t,” Clint breathes, looking down at him: panting, _panting_ with Bucky’s metal fucking hand tight in his hair. “I wasn’t really - pushing, but - fuck,” and he groans as he suddenly dives down onto Bucky’s cock, sliding all the way down to the base before pulling off, sloppy and slick. Bucky is fucking shaking now. 

“I had no fucking idea,” Clint gasps, having leapt up Bucky’s body to his mouth, “I had no fucking idea but Buck, you’re so goddamn gorgeous, I don’t even believe—“

“I want you,” Bucky grinds out, his own throat feeling tight and lodged as Clint is mauling his bruised lips again, his mouth opening automatically under him, both hands now in Clint’s hair pulling him down into it, and a sigh as Clint sinks and obeys. “Fuck, do I want you, you have no goddamn idea—”

Clint fumbles at his hand until he has the bottle of lube secure, and he says, “Just let me—” but at that point, Bucky has to fucking roll them over again, taking the bottle back with a kiss he hopes is overpowering enough to distract Clint.

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” he says, with teeth, and Clint just whispers _Fuck_ as his eyes close.

Bucky tips in, mouth against Clint’s neck, Clint making these small frantic noises, and he whispers: “I want every inch I can get.” 

Clint fucking _whines,_ a desperate sound, and Bucky’s fingers are choking as he opens the bottle and slicks his hand up, fast and sloppy, barely even fucking aware at this point, just trying to hold Clint’s hips down with his own until his hand has a chance to slip down between them. His finger traces a path down and circles around Clint’s hole and it’s like they’re both fucking connected to this with wires, tuned in to this frequency, because Clint chokes and arches, his head tipped back so his entire throat is on display, and Bucky can’t - has to - bites down on his adam’s apple, sucks into the hollow, as he very carefully and slowly slips a finger into Clint.

Then - then they really can’t breathe, Clint tensing about his finger in waves, like he’s coming, and Bucky fucking undone by Clint’s shivers until Clint moans, out loud, and tries to thrust himself down, which Bucky thinks means _more_ so he slowly draws his finger out and tries two and then - oh, _fuck._ He’s moving his hand, pressing in and up, and Clint’s lower body is climbing him until there’s a certain angle and Clint fucking groans, filthy and loud, his body spasming as Bucky holds on to his hip and shivers his fingers, fast, across Clint’s prostate. 

“Buck, _please,_ ” Clint whimpers, as Bucky says _Jesus Fuck_ very clearly, with extra syllables. Clint pulls off Bucky’s fingers and then _rolls the fuck over,_ on hands and knees, and he’s babbling at this point — which is better than Bucky, who can’t even get his mouth to work as he’s re-slicking his hand.

He broaches Clint with three fingers, slowly, and Clint’s trying to pump off his hand, almost instinctively, while Bucky’s still just gaping at his fingers inside motherfucking SSA Clint Fucking Barton, watching it with a hand pressing to his own dick like this is porn he’s privileged to see rather than his actual fucking life.

Then it all lands back on him, heavy and weighted with potential, and he says, “Gimme the—”

Clint fumbles, at the pillow, tosses the packets at Bucky, and then his upper body just _tips down:_ elbows out, hands in his hair, face on the sheets, the arc of his back something sharp and almost goddamned illegal. 

“Clint, _Jesus,”_ Bucky says as he manages to get a condom out with shaky fingers, rolls it on. The plane of Clint’s body - his ass high in the air, open, while his muscled back dips down and his incredible shoulders and arms are down, _low,_ as if Clint just needs to sink into the bed. Bucky pours out more lube, slicks his hand: slicks the outside of the condom, and then pumps his hand on Clint’s dick, slicking it up, soft and warm.

He leaves his hand there as his prosthetic grips his own cock, sliding until it presses, slow but unrelenting, at Barton’s hole. Bucky makes sure he moves slowly, his other hand on Clint’s cock moving just as slowly, and Clint fucking _keens_ as the crown of Bucky’s head slips past the ring of muscle and settles in. _Fucking—_ Clint is still tight, and hot as fuck, and he makes this near-howl as Bucky slowly, surely, without a pause, sheathes himself inside.

Bucky stops. He literally cannot move. His head tips downward until it’s resting between Clint’s shoulder blades. He’s breathing humid against Clint’s skin, his lungs hauling air in and out, because otherwise he isn’t going to be able to —

“Christ, _Bucky_ , I—” Clint chokes out, almost muffled by the pillow, and suddenly Bucky’s hand is in his hair: clutching it, dragging Clint’s head up the tiniest bit, bowing his back in an arch, and Clint lets him, _holy fucking shit._

“Move or I’m gonna die,” Clint gasps, and it’s so raw Bucky can’t help but hitch his hips.

Bucky starts moving. It’s an imperative: he can’t _not,_ now, not with the goddamned slope of Clint Barton’s body before him, the well-honed shapes of muscles down his back to those thick shoulders, all of it clenched up, Clint’s hands clutching at fabric: succumbing, yielding, as Bucky slowly but relentlessly pumps himself in and out of Clint’s body. His hand is still in Clint’s hair. Bucky is gasping at every thrust, because his eyes don’t know what to do with this; his skin is burning, his balls are tight, and he continues to thrust forward, getting a wanton noise out of Barton every time his angle hits.

He feels like this moment could drag out forever, Clint crying out beneath his relentless thrusting; stars have spangled across his eyes by the time Bucky realizes Clint has breathed something throaty and thick, and pulls forward to free Bucky’s cock - he’s mumbling _Can I_ and _Just let me_ and _Can we_ as if Bucky isn’t going to agree to anything he says right now — and then Bucky is on his back, hands cast upwards next to his face, and Clint is looking down at him with dark eyes and bruised mouth as he fucking _sits back_ onto Bucky’s cock with a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky realizes belatedly that Clint’s arms are holding his down: Clint’s huge shoulders, his broad biceps, all bearing down on Bucky so that he can’t move as Clint fucks himself on Bucky’s cock, a relentless pace that Bucky knows is gonna end too soon because the sensation and the _view,_ Christ: Bucky feels it building, in his balls, and there is no fucking way he is going to last much longer than this.

He wrestles his flesh arm out from Barton’s grip and slips it between them: Clint’s cock is still slick, thankfully, and dripping liquid from the tip. Bucky moans, as Clint is driving his body downwards as if Bucky’s splitting him open, and his hand pulls at Barton: once, twice, and Clint makes a stuttered noise above him—

And Bucky fucking goes blank as he comes, something howling its way out of his throat as his hips take over, rough and claiming, and Clint’s ass is bearing down on him, milking everything out of him, Bucky shaking and almost sobbing as his hand works Clint’s—

And Clint fucking shudders, all over, and comes in tongues: ropes splattering over Bucky’s abs, and splintered words coming from his mouth, and then Clint fucking collapses on him and Bucky doesn’t really notice anything for a long, dark, comfortable and exhausted time.


	8. Friday

Clint’s ears are ringing. It’s awkward because his ears were ringing before, at some point tonight, but this is different and his brain can’t parse the proper behavior to respond to either and for a moment he just forces his face into whatever warm and safe haven it’s found, his limbs wrapping about whatever is available, and he prays that whatever entity he’s imagining will be merciful and release him back into his real world with minimal price.

The entity he’s embracing, however, grunts and flails, although it’s underneath Clint’s weight - Clint wonders when he won this contest - and struggles to get its face free of the many pillows and Nat’s blankets that Clint has apparently stacked on his own bed.

“Th’ fuck’n,” says a voice, and even half-sleeping Clint recognizes that it’s Barnes, it’s Bucky, and he shifts to a side to collapse on something that is bed and isn’t Bucky; and gets lifted halfway in the air anyway when Bucky sits up, rubbing both hands slowly across his face as if he isn’t sure his own memories are correct.

“It’s,” Clint starts, but he’s slipped halfway down a naked Barnes and he is nowhere near responsible if his mouth takes a path towards Bucky’s nipple that he didn’t originally intend to. “M’stupid phone,” he murmurs, while deeply sucking against the pink-red nipple he’d found, still sensitive if Bucky’s noises were anything to listen to.

“I fuck’n swear,” Bucky mutters, and then sits the rest of the way up, tipping Clint mostly to the side but keeping an arm around the crown of his head, keeping him close. “Th’ fuck is it?”

There’s some flailing around in the blankets, and then Bucky thrusts the thing in his face. It’s playing _Intergalactic_ by the Beastie Boys, incredibly loud, and Clint doesn’t even know who is messing with his ringtones this time and while he’s trying to figure out what side is up he wonders why he bothers with a passcode anyway.

Clint fumbles at it, his fingers feeling like toes, and eventually swipes it. He must make some kind of noise because he can hear Natasha’s sigh very clearly. He’s slept in his fucking aids again, but this time, he doesn’t care.

“I will be coming back to the room in an hour, Clint,” she says, speaking slowly as if to a small child. “When I get there, I am expecting no sign of whatever trouble you got into last night, and I am expecting you to have pants. On. Pants on.”

“W’ever,” Clint mumbles, and hangs up on her, collapsing back onto whatever’s nearest.

To his surprise, Bucky starts chuckling, low at first and then harder, until Clint’s poking at him to share the joke.

“Whatever trouble you got into,” he says, still laughing, “last night? Am I _trouble?_ ”

Clint tries to waggle his eyebrows and say, “More like trouble got into me,” and his attempt must have been intelligible because Bucky’s laughing harder now, almost howling. 

“Whatever trouble got into you,” he hoots, and he rolls them over somehow so that he’s perched over Clint, leaning over his face, with a smile that’s still amused but somewhat fond. 

“I think you’re a bit of an idiot,” Bucky says very sincerely, and then leans forward to kiss him. Bucky’s lips are dry, and the kiss is soft, slow, gentle - unlike anything from last night. Clint closes his eyes and is perfectly content to continue kissing Bucky like this until Nat storms in and throws them both out the window. 

Bucky pulls away, and Clint flails around, trying to pull him back in. He can feel his mouth frowning now that it isn’t kissing. He opens his eyes; Bucky’s still leaning over him, smiling crookedly down.

“Gotta go, Barton,” he says, and shrugs. “We’ve got work to do.”

Clint’s trying not to think about it. He leans up to kiss Bucky again - because he can’t not - but keeps it brief, a quick press, his tongue on Bucky’s lip. “Fine,” he whines, and sits up. “No chance of a repeat, huh.”

Bucky’s eyes go dark for a second, and he leans in close. “If I get my hands on you again,” he growls, “an hour won’t be nearly enough time.”

Clint shivers. “Is that a promise?” He murmurs back, his eyes flicking down to Bucky’s mouth then back.

“ _Fuck,_ Clint,” Bucky says, swooping in to deliver a bruising kiss, his mouth crushing against Clint’s, almost desperate: Clint folds instantly, opening, responding, letting Bucky take, and take, and take.

Finally Bucky pulls away and shifts, starting to get out of the bed. “You are a hard guy to leave,” he says, nonchalantly, as if it isn’t the greatest thing Clint’s heard all morning, as if Clint isn’t going to replay it over and over for the next twenty years of his life. “The fuck are my pants?”

Clint gets up and they both move about the room, finding and trading articles of clothing, looking and touching as they do. Clint’s more than a little hard, just staring at Bucky’s ass, the plane of his abs, the bruise on his neck — but he can be good, he really can. They get dressed in mostly silence, until they’re both clothed, kind of glancing back and forth at each other while Bucky checks that his pockets still have everything they did before the pants were tossed. 

“Hey,” he says, as Clint’s trying not to look, and trying not to make it weird. “Hey, Clint. Look at me.”

He looks up. Bucky’s standing close, and he reaches out slowly to put his hand on Clint’s arm, squeezing. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice quiet. “I gotta go, need to shower and change at the station. We good?”

“Better than good,” Clint says quickly, unsure what’s come over him. “That was — uh. I meant what I said, last night, when, um. Yeah, we’re good, we’re okay.”

Bucky smiles at him, his eyes crinkling. “See you in a bit, Barton,” he says. “Make sure you remember the pants thing.”

Clint shuts the door behind him and wonders what the hell he’s gonna do when he can’t focus on anything else. He wonders why his heart is pounding, still. He wonders if it’ll be obvious to everyone in the room that they fucked, if Coulson will look at him and send him home. He wonders whether Barnes wants to do it again, and then presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, making some kind of noise in frustration. He wonders whether he’s going to be able to focus like he needs to.

He wonders what the fuck that was. What the fuck is wrong with him.

Nat’ll fix him, he decides; that’s what she does. He heads for the shower.

———

Bucky’s just putting his duffel, now full of his dirty clothes, back into his locker when Steve comes in, his whole face brightening as he gets eyes on Bucky, freshly showered and changed. 

“Well,” Steve drawls, and Bucky just knows he’s gonna get so much shit. “Nice to see ya, Buck. Have a nice night?”

“In fact, I did,” Bucky says, letting his voice go smug. He can give it right back to Stevie when he has to.

“Wanna tell me where you were?” Steve leans in. He’s positively grinning. 

“Nooope,” Bucky says immediately, pulling it out to multiple syllables and popping the _p_ at the end.

“If I guessed,” Steve says, with an utterly shit-eating grin, “would I be right?”

“Not gonna answer that one,” Bucky tells him, “on grounds of self-incrimination.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ right,” Steve declares, as they walk back into the conference room. “I knew it. Know it. Whatever.”

Bucky gives him a prim shrug and heads for the coffee thermos.

Steve slides up next to him and whispers, “Should I expect someone else to be in a wonderful mood this morning?”

Bucky smacks him. “Everyone should be in a better mood. We all got sleep, right? I have _noooo_ idea what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh my god,” Stevie crows. “I’m so right.”

So far the room is just Coulson and Carter. They both look refreshed, awake, and serious; they’re flipping through something on a tablet, sitting in the front of the conference room. Bucky gives them a lazy salute as he grabs a donut from the table in the back. Peggy just rolls her eyes.

Steve wanders over and Bucky follows him, eventually, after also grabbing coffee. 

“Back to the grindstone?” Steve asks, and Carter laughs.

“You’ve got a few minutes to rest before the beatings continue,” Coulson says mildly. “The crew is on their way.”

“I am eating all of these donuts,” Bucky decides, and consumes the one he has in three bites.

“Charming,” Carter murmurs.

“Worked up an appetite this morning?” Steve asks, his eyes shining.

“I fuckin’ hate you, Stevie,” Bucky says cheerfully, and heads back to the table in the back with the food.

A few minutes later they can hear the clamor in the hall — it’s mostly Tony, excited about something, but Bucky can hear Thor’s manly chuckle, and the low current of conversation he assumes is Clint and Natasha talking to each other, most likely making fun of Tony. He’s gotten so used to them in the past few days - mostly cause he had to - but it’s settling, like the room was just too quiet before they showed up.

It’s a loud pile into the room, Tony jumping himself up behind Bruce, hands on Bruce’s shoulders, Bruce laughing and trying to duck away; Thor behind him, laughing at them both, and then Natasha, and then, well, Clint.

Bucky’s looking and so he sees Clint’s eyes immediately fly to him the second he’s in the room, and his stomach does a funny kind of swoop as Clint smiles, small and private and just for him, which shouldn’t be anything near as sweet as it is and fuck, Bucky smiles back, a little heated, remembering Clint’s smile against his skin.

Clint flushes, to his surprise, and the smile quirks upwards into a grin before he looks away. Bucky takes his plate and fresh coffee and heads to his normal seat in the conference room, kicking the chair next to him out for Steve as he approaches.

“Morning, Rogers,” Natasha says as she slides past, lingering just a second too long to add, “Morning, _Barnes_.” Her face is totally blank except for some kind of amusement in her eyes, and Bucky realizes: first, she knows; and second, he needs to keep her the hell away from Stevie. They’ll just be unbearable together.

He keeps his eyes on the table and eats the donut. 

Moments later the chair on his other side jerks, and Barton collapses into it. His plate has three donuts stacked on each other like a tower and he’s balancing two coffees in his other hand. To Bucky’s surprise, everything makes it down onto the table or chair, including Clint himself.

“Bucky,” Clint says, nodding a greeting, totally nonchalant.

“Clint,” Bucky returns, equally nonplussed; when Steve nudges him, Bucky just rolls his eyes. He can see Stevie’s grin at the very corner of his vision but he’s not gonna fuckin’ acknowledge it.

Conversation turns to the case, of course, as Tony comes around handing out tablets that have apparently been “updated with all of the case data in every possible form you could want, up to and including binary,” which, what the fuck? Tony also suspiciously has enough tablets to go around this time, including Bucky and Steve. Bucky eyes him but Tony shrugs, winks, and moves on. 

They’ve been lucky. The killer hasn’t struck since Tuesday; Coulson confirms it, out loud, and the whole room gives a little sigh of relief. No sign of him or anything related. JARVIS has finished chasing down some of their leads, filling in answers to their questions when it can, and they’re all sort of reading what’s new, reviewing the information, getting their freshly rested heads back in the game.

Coulson’s giving a casual out-loud monologue, even though most of them are having their own conversations; it seems to help _him_ think, to do it out loud, and Bucky keeps glancing up to catch him shifting things around in a _really neat looking_ holographic timeline-lineup-thing he supposes Stark built. He and Steve are going through the notes Nat and Clint have taken on the thirty-two people from Baltimore that showed up within one of their fancy search parameter sets, trying to figure out what the link could be from that pool to Johann Schmidt from Germany, if there even is one. 

Lunch comes and goes. The four of them are in conversation now - Nat’s pulled a chair round to the other side of the table and Bucky’s shifted a bit so that they’re in some kind of wonky circle - flicking through individuals and floating ideas out there, sliding tablets across the table, a weird half-conversation. Nat and Clint are arguing out some profiling theory, so Bucky tilts his tablet towards Steve and says, voice laden with sarcasm such that each word drags, “Oh look, it’s John Smith.”

Steve snorts, but over his shoulder, Clint says, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“John Smith,” Bucky says, but then he and Clint both freeze, in one of those perfectly in-tune moments that he doesn’t even believe in. “ _John Smith,_ ” he repeats, dragging out the first name, mashing the second one, and they’re staring at each other now, eyes wide.

Clint tilts his head, and they ask each other, “ _Johann Schmidt?_ ” at the exact same time.

Bucky can feel Steve and Natasha both jerk, and then freeze, even though he’s only looking at Clint. Their eyes stay locked, and there’s some sort of roaring sound in the background, but Bucky’s just looking, watching Clint’s eyes take it in, actually _watching_ as his profiler’s brain sorts through it: he’s watching Clint think, and it’s fucking gorgeous.

Turns out the roaring sound is Tony Stark saying, “Hey, it looks like they have something over there, what’s going on, I want in,” and Steve is standing now, trying to hold him off, but something slots into Clint’s eyes and he turns to Tony, all professional agent now, and says: “John Smith. Johann Schmidt. Slot them up, Tony. See if there’s an overlap.”

Tony’s eyes light up and he says, quietly, “Well, fuck my ass and call me Matilda,” which is something Bucky’s going to quickly forget he ever heard - which works, because then Tony’s barking out orders to his AI.

“JARVIS? Timeline. Line up the two of them, look at the gaps. Check known alibis —public appearances, what have you. FRIDAY, I want you digging. Circumstantial won’t cut glass in this case. We need confirmation.”

The rest of the room is catching up, the background mutter growing, and Bucky sort of steps back, sinking back into his seat, cause this is for the profilers now. Coulson’s still sort of monologuing except that his voice is increasing in volume and diction with every few words and it ends up being orders, directions, and Bucky sits with Steve and watches as the entire BAU team coalesces into a single functional dangerous unit. 

It’s a work of art, actually: the way Tony can keep track of about five or six things at a time, with a conversation in his ear from his AI; the way Bruce just hunkers down and starts drawing lines and notes through a holo Tony’s still building, working absolutely in tandem with all five or six Tony Starks that are doing things. Thor is with Natasha and Clint as they are working through details, personality, past, motive means and opportunity, and Coulson manages to hover at the edge of all of it, gentle pushes with fingers and words to keep everything lined up in the same direction. It’s a working machine, and Bucky can’t get enough watching it. It reminds him of the way he and Steve and the Howlies used to run their raids, just clean and efficient and perfect the way everyone clicks together, and he jerks his head to the side to look at Stevie and can tell by his eyes alone that Steve’s thinking the same thing.

Peggy comes up behind them, and puts a hand on each of their shoulders. She squeezes, and says in a low tone, “Good work, boys.”

Bucky nods. To his surprise, Stevie reaches up to pat Carter’s hand, even squeezing it back once. Bucky wags his eyebrows. Steve ignores him, which is great, cause Steve’s been giving him shit all morning.

———

The room has devolved into chaos and Clint’s just trying to keep up. They’re all inputting information into their tablets, because Tony and Bruce are pulling from JARVIS to build some big image - they both have earpieces, now, and whatever they’re tossing between themselves may as well be more German swear words for all he knows.

“Tony,” Bruce says, a little loud, “just _let me—_ ” He makes a dragging motion with his hands, from the tablet in front of him to the air, and a screen pulls up. Bruce stretches it out until it’s probably five or six feet long, and the group reassembles to allow it room.

It’s two timelines, stacked on top of each other, and Bruce and Tony walk them through it. Johann Schmidt, born in Germany, brilliant neuroscientist: found a place in some post-Nazi organization and quickly worked his way to the top of the research organization. Bruce keeps dragging things up - academic papers, a patent - and placing them, connecting green glowing lines with his fingertip to tell some substory about the scientific connections.

“Year 2003,” Tony says, tapping a finger in the air by a glowing red dot. “Schmidt kills two scientists in his little Nazi club, three shots to the head, and vanishes off the map.”

“2004,” Natasha says, reaching out with one finger. “John Smith shows up, in Washington DC, on the director’s board of _Luchshezchit_ , which appears to be an investing firm run by...”

“Huh,” Tony says, and he pulls that point aside and starts poking at it. “JARVIS, buddy, do your thing.”

“John Smith has real backstory, though,” Clint points out, trailing his fingers along the beginning of the timeline. “Birthday, work history - we flagged him cause there were gaps, yeah, but is this legit, or was it planted?”

“FRIDAY,” Stark calls out, typing furiously, and the electronic voice answers: “On it, sir.”

“Look, Tony,” Bruce calls, and Tony runs to his side, hooking his chin over Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s the usual Nazi crap, but the science fits: a chemical solution that helps your brain block pain signals? An injection to —wait, clear out your neural pathways? That’s a joke, that’s stupid, it doesn’t exist.”

“Do you think he tried it on himself?” Tony asks. “I wanna see.”

Clint says, “Talk to me, FRIDAY.”

“John Smith is a very common name,” the AI says tartly. “It’s going to take me more than a minute to see whether there’s any legitimate John Smith who matches the John Smith in JARVIS’ array, let alone to compare—”

“Fine, FRIDAY, don’t talk to me,” Clint says, but he’s laughing. 

Instead, he sits down to go through what he has on his tablet and approach it from the good old human side. Tasha‘s back in her spot, and Clint reclaims his chair next to Bucky. 

Steve says, “What do we need to focus on?”

Nat tilts her head in thought. “Well. If Johann Schmidt is the killer - whether or not he’s the John Smith from the previous search - he has had a really long dormant period. That’s unusual for unsubs who show this level of violence.”

“Normally with this level of violence there’s some internal need,” Clint explains. “The unsub can only find release from this level of blood and gore.”

“Release?” Steve chokes, and Bucky’s lips tighten as if he doesn’t want to laugh. “Like, sexual?”

“It can be.” Nat gestures, tucks her hair behind her ear. “Sometimes it’s a mental release, a calming of sorts. Other times it’s the more, um, pleasant meaning of the word.” Her eyes rest on Clint a little too long, and he rolls his eyes at her, sighing.

“So,” Bucky asks, “why would a guy like that go dormant?”

“Incapacitated,” Clint says, ticking off a finger.

“Incarcerated,” Nat adds, and he ticks off another finger.

“Somehow sated, until a new trigger sets off the fantasy again.” Clint adds another.

“Different way of finding release,” Nat continues.

“Just didn’t get caught.” That’s a whole hand, and Clint waggles it at Bucky.

“Right,” Bucky says, grinning. “I get it. Lots of reasons. But what does all of this,” and he makes this windmill gesture encompassing the whole room; Clint wonders if he even realizes he’s doing it with the prosthetic. “What does it all say?”

Clint looks over at Natasha, and hums. She’s equally deep in thought, and they have one of those conversations through eyebrows and twisting mouths that Clint’s so grateful they can do without needing anything more.

“It means we’re probably right about the three bullets being some kind of personal superstition, or something meaningful within the delusion,” Nat says finally.

“He isn’t finding release in the violence,” Clint adds. “Even though _that’s_ his signature, _that’s_ the thing he has to repeat. So,” he asks Nat, “What’s the part that’s giving him the satisfaction?”

“Is it the kill itself,” Nat ponders, “or is it the - the act of the kill, the elimination? The fact that he has removed a person that could… what? Stand in his way?”

Clint knows they’re cutting the locals out, and he throws a quick glance at Bucky - who shrugs, with a look on his face like he understands - then turns back to Nat. “They could have stood in his way, and now they’re stopped with three bullets so they can’t come back. Let’s work that.”

\--------

Bucky catches Clint’s glance and knows this is something beyond their set of experience, so he tugs Steve away from the conversation Clint and Natasha are now having, thick with technical terminology. There has to be something more useful they can be doing, Bucky thinks. Hell, he’ll go on patrol with the Howlies if he has to. Something is itching under his skin, a restless thing set loose by last night and this morning, a thing that needs to see this case complete, done, ended.

He glances back at Clint and for a few second lets himself appreciate the line of Clint’s jaw as he sorts through theories with Natasha, the loose gestures of his hands that aren’t sign but hover close to being something specific, as if Clint talks with his entire body. Bucky’s normally really good at blocking out this kind of shit but he can’t help remembering his mouth on Clint’s neck, Clint’s big hands on his skin. _Fuck._

Bucky turns around to see that Steve has migrated over to Stark. He can’t decide whether it’s funny or not: originally he wouldn’t have ever expected Stevie and Stark to hit it off, but knowing some of Stark’s story makes him both sympathetic and understanding of what Stevie might see in the guy’s mannerisms.

“Look,” Stark is saying as Bucky tunes back into the conversation, hitching a hip onto the table beside where Steve’s sitting, “ _Luchshezchit._ Can you tell me about it or not.”

“I have no damn idea, Stark,” Steve replies, and frowns. “But I can tell you nobody’s doing restoration in that district.”

“It’s all over their website,” Tony counters loudly, and Bucky happens to meet Banner’s eyes behind Stark and Banner grins at him with a shrug. Bucky finds it endearing, and shrugs back at him, settling back to watch the argument. 

“Do you think I’m ignoring Brooklyn as a namesake?” Steve says, indignant, and Bucky enjoys the look on Tony’s face for a second; to his surprise, there’s humor in both of their eyes, and he knows Steve’s as reluctant to find any kind of humor in this work as he is himself. He also knows when Steve’s having hard fun, and he is. “I’m born and bred Brooklyn, so of course I spent some time learning Baltimore’s version.”

Bucky ignores Tony’s response to glance back over at Clint. _Fuck,_ but he’s distracted. Clint’s fingers are wrapped around Natasha’s shoulder and Bucky wants to wander over and suck each digit into his mouth. No he _doesn’t_ : He hasn’t ever had this kind of problem before. Jesus _Fuck._ He wants to wander over and press himself up Clint’s spine, tuck his chin over Clint’s shoulder, and answer Natasha’s questions together -- no, he _doesn’t._

Bucky turns back to Steve, looking for a distraction now, and he reads the friendly lines of Steve’s body against Stark’s tense sit and Banner’s _overly_ relaxed slouch against the table like it’s deliberate. This should be a much more interesting scene to watch and participate in; Bucky swings himself over, bracing, and tells himself he won’t look at Clint for at least five minutes.

“Right,” Stark says. “So you know nothing about _Luchshezchit,_ who claims to be one of the top five development investors in Baltimore right now?”

Okay, so this is something Bucky is actually interested in. He twitches forward. 

“Well, no,” Steve says, his voice still tight and friendly at the same time, and Bucky pulls more of his attention towards Steve. “Look, I’m a detective, I don’t know every single board that invests around here -- but I know the area personally, and nothing is being built out there for anyone’s betterment.”

Banner glances at Bucky, and he inserts himself smoothly into the conversation by saying, “I’ve never heard of it, either, and I have different rounds than Stevie does.”

“Huh,” Tony says, typing something into the projected hologram keyboard on the table in front of him; “Huh, look at that. Here’s the website, _Rogers_ , renovating the shoreline between BMore Brooklyn and the goddamn Bay. _Luchshezchit_ is the main developer for these regions, involved in a couple cases to purchase all the land.”

“No,” Steve insists, and Bucky watches as Steve lifts his gaze up to Stark’s, as serious and determined as ever. “Nothing’s going on there and the sales aren’t even close to finalized - I’ve talked to the people who _live_ there, Stark, there’s something wrong with that entire company statement, okay?”

Stark’s face sort of simmers through a couple emotions as Bucky watches, before settling on something curious, and a hint of respect, as if he’s finally decided to take Stevie at his word.

“Right,” Stark breathes, and then fingers are flying and there’s a second holo screen that pops up to Stark’s left, filling as he types. “Talk to me, Rogers,” Stark orders, and Bucky bristles until he catches the goddamn _blush_ on Steve’s cheeks, which fills him with some sort of unholy glee. “Tell me more about why the bullshit is bullshit.”

“Look, Brooklyn’s got a bad stretch, just at the shore,” Steve begins, and Bucky shifts closer in some kind of physical moral support he hopes his body language is offering. Like Stevie’s gonna even look at him, the punk; Steve’s got a soft spot for inner city areas, and he gets real lit up whenever he gets to talk about it. “They call it the Flats. Been renovated and reinvented a dozen times since we been here,” and that’s the Brooklyn drawl coming out in Steve’s voice, which makes Bucky so proud but also _so_ amused. 

“So you think that’s a front,” Tony says, fingers flying now not at a keyboard but at a holo, definitely muttering asides that Bucky has to assume are for the AI.

Steve’s shrug is real confrontational, and Bucky loves it. “I can’t say whether it’s a front or not,” Steve says at Stark, “but I _can_ tell you that the people who own that land are at the end of their rope. Investors flirt around it, cause it’s a good idea, but nobody wants to commit. Meanwhile, families have to sell what they’ve earned to real estate sleazebags, because nobody’s gonna pull the trigger until they see profit. So they just pass the buildings back and forth like a hot potato, knowing whoever gets stuck with it at the end takes the biggest hit.” Steve’s _completely_ cool, his body language sauntering up to Stark like a challenge, and Bucky wants to _hoot._ “You still think _Luchshezchit_ is coming in there to save the day?”

Stark’s face is completely frozen: his eyes wide, mouth somewhat agape, hands frozen in the air as if Stevie’d been delivering some kind of prophecy not fit for mortal man: but then Stark blinks, and he says “Get on it, JARVIS,” with a lilt to his voice as if he’s been completely rewritten by Steve’s anger. Bucky watches the two men eye each other, and he notes that Tony’s gaze is different now, his eyes marking respect as well as curiosity, and Bucky slides himself up behind Steve with a hand on Stevie’s shoulder because he feels this incredibly weird urge to claim his territory.

\------

Clint surfaces from a profiling read with Natasha, letting Nat load all of the profiling values up to JARVIS and FRIDAY, and glances over at Bucky. To his surprise Bucky’s body language is protective, almost stand-offish; Clint has no idea what he missed, and he takes in that Tony and Bruce are on the other side of the table, muttering to each other, and he wonders.

So he wanders over, slotting himself in behind Bucky but at a distance where he isn’t necessarily declaring anything, and waits.

“Hold on,” Bruce says, grabbing Tony’s hand to pull it out of the way and gesturing with his other arm, “Look, this doesn’t have--”

“I know, Bruce, _jeez,_ ” Tony whines, and this is so much like normal that Clint huffs. The noise gets Bucky’s attention - a small tilt to the head, maybe a ten degree turn - and Clint decides _fuck it_ and presses his palm to the small of Bucky’s back.

Bucky’s reaction is immediate: he fucking _slumps,_ against it, his head dropping, even though his hand on Rogers’ shoulder stays tense. Bucky’s entire body has tilted itself towards Clint, and he’s in a room full of goddamn profilers and he wishes he had any idea of whether Bucky wanted to play this casual or not, because he knows everyone in the room is already hyper-aware of Clint’s hand on Bucky’s back, but Clint isn’t necessarily sure he cares: he takes a step forwards and can’t help his slow exhale as Bucky relaxes against him, pressing his spine up against Clint’s shoulder.

“No, but he’s,” Bruce says, and Clint snorts again because this looks like another episode of the Genius Show.

“I know,” Tony grits out around clenched teeth, “don’t say it; but the money here is--”

“ _Tony,_ ” Bruce insists, and they flick glowing holograms back and forth for a few moments. “It’s not real.”

“I know,” Tony spits, as he flicks tiny numbers at Bruce, “but I’m still - look - check this one - oh my god, look at this,” and he just starts laughing.

Bruce sighs, and then sort of collapses over the table, his face in his hands.

Tony grins, maniacally, and flings a holographic picture up into the space between them and Bruce; it looks like an accountant’s sheet, except haunted, numbers glowing and shifting in realtime.

“Well, look here,” Tony breathes, and Clint catches his glance at Rogers. “It’s a dummy corporation with ties all the way back to Germany. Johann Schmidt’s been a bad bad boy, my friends.”

“Johann Schmidt’s been John Smith,” Bruce says through his hands. “Which means he’s probably been Red Skull too, for fifteen years. That’s depressing.”

“Cheer up, Bruce,” Tony says, clapping a hand to Bruce’s shoulder. “It means we’ve got him.” His face perks up, and Clint snorts. “Do I get to deliver the profile?”

“Why bother?” Natasha’s picking her way through the spreadsheet. “We’ve got it down to _one._ Coulson!” 

The group coalesces around the hovering spreadsheet and Clint listens as Bruce and Tony recap the key pieces of the puzzle. He notices belatedly that Bucky and Steve have dropped away, again, positioned like guardians at the edges of the BAU circle. He catches Bucky’s eye, and Bucky just nods towards the holo as if to say, _go on._

Tony pulls out Smith - Schmidt - the unsub’s home address, somewhere south of the city, and Thor starts to plan out their approach. Bruce has pulled up a couple related workplaces - it looks like the Red Skull doesn’t have a day job, really, but he seems to float in and out of a couple tech companies weekly, so he could be there. Clint’s blood is up, humming, because when there’s a name there’s usually an end in sight. One way or another.

They’re interrupted by a noise at the door.

“Chief?” The door opens. It’s Morita. The room quiets as Carter stands up and nods.

“Just got a call from Johns Hopkins University of Medicine,” says Morita, “saying they’re having some kind of staff dinner thing tonight and two professors haven’t shown up. Both had mentioned they’d be there earlier, and they remembered the press conference giving special warning to technical fields, and called it in.”

Clint pauses, and glances over at Rogers and Barnes. Barnes has an eyebrow raised; Rogers’ brow is wrinkled into a frown. 

“Names?”

Morita looks down at his notepad. “Dr. Mario Delmontes and Dr. Arid Almada, both professors in the School of Medicine.”

“Alright,” Tony says, fingers flying; Bruce is already hovering behind him, hands on Tony’s shoulders as if to hold him up. “Here,” he says, flinging up pictures of driver’s licenses, information underneath. “Home addresses & phone, let’s see, okay - Delmontes is married, we can call and see whether he decided to come home instead.”

“I shall,” Thor says, picking up his mobile.

“Almada,” Tony trails off. More typing, the holo in front of him moving so fast Bucky can’t even follow it. “Lives alone, but here are a couple neighbors we can call and check, better than nothing.”

“Here,” Bucky calls, and Tony doesn’t even hesitate, just tosses the holo over to land on the tablet on the table. Bucky and Steve scroll through it - as if they’re part of the team, as if they have been for years; they’re naturals at Tony’s tech - and both pull out their phones.

Coulson is back working the timeline. He waves them over. Tasha takes up next to him; Clint stays on the other side of the holo, trying to follow the data. 

“Sir,” Tasha says softly, “we’re gonna have to go in.”

Coulson rubs his face. “All of this is circumstantial,” he mutters. “So far, anyway.”

“No, sir,” Clint says, having exchanged a serious look with Tasha. He knows what she means. “We’re gonna have to go in after the professors. Whether it’s John Smith - Johann Whatever - or not.”

Thor’s voice booms over the din. “Delmontes has not returned home, although his wife was not concerned, as he had planned to attend the staff dinner.” He coughs. “She is, of course, now concerned.”

“We have no confirmation on Almada yet,” Steve adds. “Although it doesn’t mean she’s _not_ there, just no one has seen her.”

“What’ll it be, sir?” Clint asks. Coulson’s looking increasingly frustrated, which is odd, because Phil rarely lets any kind of emotion show on his face unless it’s benign indifference. The room is still buzzing; they’re all aware of the stakes here, two potential victims, six potential bullets.

“Call it, Coulson,” Natasha _snaps_ , and the room quiets down as all attention turns to them. 

Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, and when his hand drops, he looks normal - Unit Chief Coulson normal, determined and almost deadly.

“Peggy, may I?” He gestures at her, at Steve and Bucky. Chief Carter opens her hand, a classy little _be my guest_ type gesture. Phil closes his eyes, breathes sharply, and then calls it.

“We need to hit two locations. Two extraction teams. First one — right. First one is more likely to be dangerous.” He glances over at Carter again, who simply nods. “Barton, Romanoff, take Rogers and Barnes with you to Johns Hopkins. Secure the perimeter and clear the building. If found, do not engage without backup unless the victims’ lives are in immediate danger. Once the building is clear, stand down for further instructions.”

His glance turns. “Odinson and I will take general backup to clear John Smith’s house. If he’s there, we bring him in for questioning. If the victims happen to be there, same - we wait for backup.”

To Clint’s surprise, Phil continues the turn, his gaze landing on Tony and Bruce, still working keyboards and tossing files back and forth. “Stark, Banner,” he says, and they both look up, surprise in their faces. “You suit up too. You’re with Carter as our reserves. This guy is clever, he knows the city, he knows what he’s doing. Good chance we’re gonna need to have a third team in our back pocket, but you don’t ship out until we have intel.”

“You’re letting me in the field?” Tony’s face is astonished, although there is a definite smirk building behind his eyes.

Phil ignores him. “We do well, we save some lives tonight. If everything is clear, we come back to rework the case.” He pauses. “And if any of you get hurt out there, I will kill you myself and then put you on six weeks of Stark duty.”

“Hey!”

“Chief Carter, do you concur?”

Carter glances over at Bucky and Steve. “Agreed,” she clips, almost instantly. “While you all assemble, I’ll get on the phone for SWAT and the rest of our force. It shouldn’t be that far behind us. For now, Rogers, Barnes — suit up.”

——-

The thing is, he and Stevie both know this isn’t going down with a fight, so when Steve opens the door to their classified armory from the army, Bucky doesn’t really bother to be startled, nor does he balk at it. All their best gear is in here, and there’s no bullshit: Bucky wants to be wearing their most effective shit when they go up against this asshole. It’s SWAT-level quality, for detectives. Good old Pegs gets them all the _best_ toys these days.

The Army had made Steve a shield, which had made Bucky laugh until he saw it deflecting bullets into the faces of their adversaries. Now, Steve picks it up, and honestly Bucky can only nod. He himself has knives in his boots, a pistol in his instep, and his best guns riding on his hips. Namely, he has his rifle - _the_ rifle, his long-distance lady, customized to hell and made perfect for his own hands - splayed across his back.

He grins at Steve, knowing this is a terrible grin, blood and desire in it: and Steve smiles back, a mouth full of teeth, and Bucky suddenly feels miles better about where they’re going and what they’ve gotten into. And no way is Stevie going anywhere without Bucky there to watch his dumb ass.

They find Clint and Natasha in the hallway. They both have their FBI vests on, their usual guns, although Bucky bets there are some more weapons hidden on them somewhere. Clint gives them both a double-take — probably not expecting this quality of gear, but hey. Bucky shrugs and Clint flushes faint across his cheekbones.

“I’ve got the car,” Steve says, and no one argues. Natasha slides in smoothly next to him, to Bucky’s surprise, but he takes the seat behind her and loads up his tablet, bringing up the 3D model of the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine building. 

“So Almada’s labs are here,” he says to Clint, who’s shifted over to see. “And Delmontes is — here, right next to hers. Of course.” 

Clint starts flipping through the levels. Their labs are on the first floor, conveniently; he pans out a bit to examine entry points. Bucky finds his gaze drifting to the surrounding buildings and tries to shake it off - his instincts look for sniper perches. 

“All of this is labs,” Clint says, gesturing. “We don’t know what Red Skull’d be looking for, or what lab it’s in.”

“Don’t call him that,” Natasha intones from the front seat, and Steve snorts.

“Oh my god,” Clint drawls, and Bucky laughs.

There’s a muffled buzz and then the car is filled with _Shoot to Thrill_ by AC/DC and Bucky laughs even harder when Clint answers his mobile and says, “Why do I even bother having a password, Stark?”

“I don’t know why you bother,” says Tony’s voice over the speaker, “it’s only an extra three seconds of protection. Good news. I got JARVIS hooked up to a couple satellite feeds and some other things. Once you’re in the building there’s a good chance I can scan it for you as you go.”

“You brilliant fucker,” Clint says. “I’ll tag you once we’re inside.”

“Kick some ass, Hawkeye,” Stark says, and hangs up.

“That’ll help,” Natasha says, turning around to look at Clint. “Should be able to tell real quick whether this is a hit or a bust.”

Bucky glances out the window. He can feel some sort of pressure, rising; something’s telling him that this is going to be a hit. There’s something there. He hopes it’s easy. He and Stevie have all of their Task Force training and their Army training, and the BAU Agents must be experts, but this guy has wicked aim and is crazier than a box of monkeys. 

At Clint’s direction, Steve pulls the car around the side to an entrance tucked into a back wall, near the end of a hallway. Before they get out, Natasha says, “Here,” and pulls four wireless earpieces from one of her many pockets. “Should link back to Coulson and JARVIS, boys.” Bucky and Steve both look at theirs for a second and shrug at each other before putting them in. Clint takes a moment, and Bucky remembers about Clint’s aids at the same moment Clint shrugs, removes whatever’s in his ear at the moment, and inserts Natasha’s handout.

The door’s locked. Steve simply shrugs and then kicks it open. Bucky snorts, and Natasha looks like she’s trying to calculate whether she could have done the same thing. They slip in. The hallway is dark, but it looks like some of the labs and offices have safety lighting, at least.

Clint pulls out his phone and lays it on the ground, then taps his earpiece twice and whispers, “Stark, we’re in.”

The long hallway is making Bucky nervous: there could be a guy with a gun at the other end, even now focusing one of them in his scope. He’s trying not to shift with energy and wait for the tech, but like Steve always says, he can barely spell the word patience, let alone use it, unless he’s lining up a shot.

“I can see you.” Tony’s voice comes through the earpiece, and the holo starts to build above Clint’s phone. Four glowing blobs appear - heat signatures, probably; Bucky can actually see his shifting around. The outlines continue to grow down the hall, to where perpendicular hallways split off. 

“Bingo,” Stark murmurs, as three other glowing signatures appear - no, wait, four? Or is that a glitch? “Oh, fuck,” Stark says, his voice totally different. “That’s a, um. One man down. Doesn’t mean dead,” he points out, but Bucky can see now the variation in color, as if not exactly at the same temperature. That’s not a good sign.

———-

Clint stares at the holo as his gut falls out. One man down. They’d only come looking for two scientists. Who’s the third? 

“Tony,” he says for his earpiece. “How far out is backup?”

“SWAT can be there in fifteen,” Tony says, sounding distracted, like he’s trying to pull this all live. “There’s a car with additional officers to secure the perimeter, they’re about ten minutes out.”

“We can’t wait,” Nat murmurs, and she’s turned off her earpiece. “You know that, Clint.”

He carefully taps his own earpiece off the common channel. “I know. We need to move. If someone’s already down.”

“Doesn’t mean dead,” Steve says, almost a question. “What does it mean?”

“It means probably dead,” Tasha says. It’s almost kind.

“There’s four of us.” Steve’s voice is growing more confident - maybe like he was in the Army. “Four of us, one madman. Two live civilians and one - unknown.”

“I’m going in,” Nat says, her voice low in the dark. Clint knows that Nat’s their best negotiator: she’s usually underestimated for being a small woman, and she fakes sympathy real well, so it makes sense. “Take stock of the situation, see if I can get him to stand down. Someone else needs to come in and be ready to shield the remaining two if we can talk him down at all.”

Clint sees Steve and Bucky look at each other; Steve’s face is set, and Bucky sighs one of those sighs that’s half fond and half an eye-roll. “Civilians,” Steve says. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Bucky replies. 

“As for the two of you,” Nat says, glancing between him and Bucky, “there’s a window, you know.”

Clint’s just really registered the comment as Nat’s already moving away, down the hall, gun pointed downward at ready. He’s sick with worry: _he_ watches Nat’s back, that’s his _job,_ but — but she’s right, there’s a window, and he’s the team’s sniper.

“Stevie, Jesus, go,” Bucky says, gesturing, and as Rogers takes off after Nat, Bucky comes to stand in front of Clint.

“I can’t,” Clint whispers. “I have to go. I have to have her back.” He’s so torn. He and Nat are the team, and he’s sending her in there with someone who - however skilled - is an unknown. But Nat’s observation is right, and in the worst case scenario it could be the answer.

“So go,” Bucky says. “I got this.”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s not your job,” he murmurs, low. “I can’t let you take this shot.”

“You can and you should,” Bucky insists. His eyes are on Clint’s now. It’s nothing like last night, except that it is: pale grey-blue gaze carrying the weight of Bucky’s emotions, intense and endearing and _fuck,_ this is not the time. 

“Look,” Bucky continues. “You two are the negotiators. Maybe you can talk him down. Stevie — he won’t interfere, but he’s your best chance at getting someone out of there safely if it all goes to hell. You don’t need me in there. I can be the backup plan.”

Clint’s mind is racing. He feels like he’s missing something, or that it’s incomplete - but it’s too late for that: they’re here, and they’re moving, and he has to make some kind of decision.

“Give me, say, ten minutes,” Bucky continues. “Stall him for that long. I’ll get in place. Then, if you need, lead him to the window and somebody let me know what the call is.”

“Coulson calls it,” Clint says automatically. He knows Coulson’s following this. He wonders what the second team found, at the house. He realizes he’s stalling and he doesn’t even know why.

Bucky takes one step closer to him. “Look, you know I can make the shot. And if you guys can work it out, you won’t even need me.”

Fuck, Clint thinks. Bucky’s right. He hands Bucky his mobile, and shrugs. “JARVIS can get you Coulson, or Carter.” Bucky nods, and for a moment they stand and look at each other again.

Clint pulls him in and presses a brief kiss to Bucky’s temple before his brain registers the need to do so. “Stay safe, asshole — and you’d better be good.”

“Go keep ‘em safe, punk,” Bucky says, and slips out of the building. 

Clint slips down the hall, round the corner, and into the hallway the holo had indicated. He stops outside the door. He can hear Natasha talking already, using her calm negotiator’s voice. “Nat,” he murmurs for the earpiece, “I’m coming in.”

“My friend is coming in, but it’s just protocol,” he hears her muffled voice say. “Nobody’s going to do anything just yet.” 

Clint slowly opens the door, with his right hand, pistol up in his left. The first thing he sees is Nat, in the middle of the room, her gun pointed towards the far corner. To his left, Steve is crouched over a small prone body; he’s drawn his gun, but isn’t aiming it yet. Clint comes around to Nat’s right, a little behind her, aiming where she is. All of the lab lights are on; there’s a drawer overturned on the floor, and a computer monitor that’s cracked across the screen.

Standing in front of them is a man. He has one gun trained on Natasha, the second gun pointed directly at the head of an older woman - who is shaking, face streaked with tears; probably Almada, one of the hostages, unless Almada’s the body Steve’s next to - who stands in between the man and Natasha. Behind them stands someone who’s probably Delmontes, his face pale and hands in the air, sweat darkening his t-shirt. They both seem old enough to be the targets; Clint decides to assume they are, and wait for identification of the third body until it makes sense.

The Red Skull - Schmidt - would look like a database generic older German man - slightly balding, sharp features - but there’s a bright red patch across his face, dripping from mid-forehead down over one eye to trail over his cheek, back to his hairline. It looks like a rash, or some kind of treatment gone wrong. 

The man’s eyes, however. They’re clear. There’s no delusion — or the delusion has long since been accepted as reality. There’s nothing soft in that gaze, and no humanity: just a cold and calculating - almost clinical - look through eyes like dark glass.

“You,” he says, gesturing backwards with the gun, “come to _here,_ ” with a pointing gesture between Schmidt and Clint. Delmontes is whimpering, _sorry; sorry_ but comes to stand where directed. It blocks Clint’s line of sight. He could probably side-step and get in a shot, but probably not without costing one of the hostages: all of their data says that Red Skull - Schmidt - is as well-trained with guns as Clint himself, and Clint needs to _remember_ that before he starts acting dumb.

“Look,” Nat says gently, and she slowly drops her gun so that it isn’t pointed at Schmidt. “I’ll put this away, and we can just talk.” This is their usual game. Nat doesn’t even put the safety on, and she can draw from her holster faster than anyone Clint’s ever seen, but it’s the kind of move that lowers the wall for the unsub, dissipating the pressure. Clint also knows Nat’s only doing it because he’s here, at her back.

“There is nothing to talk about,” Schmidt spits. His accent is German, his English tightly wound. “I hope you do not think you can stop me.”

“I think _you_ can stop _this_ ,” Nat says, and she’s so good at this: Clint almost believes that she’s really feeling this, trying to work it out, although he knows Nat would have put a bullet in his head already if it weren’t for the hostages. “It’s about data, right? Information. It’s about their inventions. There’s no need to kill the ones who came up with it.”

“They are not worthy.” Schmidt makes a noise like a hiss. “They have trespassed. They deserve to die because of it.”

Nat doesn’t take her eyes off of Schmidt for a second, but her hand moves in a brief flicker that Clint catches. It’s a request for backup. She must want Clint to start playing his role against hers.

“They came up with it,” he says, entering the conversation with his most level voice. Schmidt’s eyes flick to his and Clint swallows a subliminal shudder. “I would think they’re the only ones who deserve it.”

“They did not,” Schmidt insists. “It is too advanced. I shall take their ideas to the only logical conclusion, and their work will die with them.”

“Conclusion,” Nat asks gently. “What conclusion?”

“Why are you worthy, when they’re not?” Clint adds.

“You see my face,” Schmit growls. “The title your press has chosen for me is more fitting than they know. I went through the trials. I have borne the pain, three times, and become more than an average man. I have earned it, little lady.” Clint isn’t looking a second time, but he gets it, the _Red Skull_ title seemingly fitting against this dark and cold backdrop.

Nat’s hand twitches but this time Clint knows she’s willing herself not to slug the guy in the face. 

“What have you borne?” Nat presses him, gently, and Clint takes a moment to take stock. He glances over at Steve, quick; the other man shakes his head. So the third person is a victim. The wall behind Steve bears two windows; the very last light of the day looks into the brightened room. 

Clint’s pretty sure this one isn’t going to have a good ending.

He tunes back in to hear Nat asking softly, her voice dripping with sincerity and sympathetic interest, “More than an average man. What are you?”

“It is not what I am,” Schmidt says, haughty and indignant. “It is what I will be. More than an average man. We approach godhood.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Clint says to him, but it’s meant for Natasha. “Let them go, and come with us.”

Bucky’s voice in their ear, then, breathy and quiet, like spattering rain: “I’ve got a line of sight on Clint. If you can get the unsub to move that way, and move Clint, I’ve got the shot.”

Clint’s eyes flick to the window and he gets a feel for the sight line immediately, taking stock of his own position and the angles from each window between himself and Red Skull. If he and Nat can get Schmidt to move forward, or to the side, take a few steps away from the corner and moving the professors even further, Bucky could have a shot.

He hears Coulson’s familiar voice in his ear, then, confident and calm. “I need a sitrep.”

“Will you do us a favor?” Natasha asks immediately. “A gesture of good faith.”

“Why do I care about your faith?” Schmidt sneers. 

“You care because there’s a limited number of ways this is gonna turn out,” Clint says, steeling his voice. “Only one of ‘em’s gonna be good for you, and it starts with you showing you’re willing to work with us.”

“Your math is wrong, little man,” Schmidt says, but continues: “What do you ask?”

Natasha turns, very slowly, to turn her open hand towards Steve and whatever unfortunate body he’s crouching by. “Let our colleague leave with the dead,” she says, her voice soft with sadness. “Surely you’re done with them.”

“The gentle sensitivities of women,” Johann Schmidt says, but he takes a step forward to look. Rogers does his best to look harmless and innocent. It’s a good look on him, Clint thinks wildly. 

“I will give you this,” Schmidt agrees magnanimously. “But only because I can, not because you asked.”

“Thank you,” Tasha breathes, and while Schmidt is momentarily distracted watching Steve pick up the body in a fireman’s carry, she glances at Clint. He jerks his head to the left, and then takes a step. Tasha follows, a small graceful shimmy that moves her a couple inches back without being obvious.

The door closes, and Clint can hear Steve delivering the sitrep through his earpiece. He tunes it out after catching that the poor deceased is apparently a janitor of some kind, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I do not know what you think is going to happen.” Red Skull is now just aiming each gun at a hostage’s head, prodding them occasionally to move as he watches Clint and Natasha. “You have seen that I am a very good shot. You cannot defeat me.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “How do you think this is going to end, then?”

In his ear, Coulson says: “Clint. Do you have a shot?”

Clint very slowly lifts his hand as if to scratch his face. Schmidt watches, merely sneering at him when he does, like he’s personally overcome itching with his own impending godhood. With his thumb, he taps twice: _no._

“You will allow me to leave this building with the data,” Schmidt says. “In doing so, I will spare the lives of these two pitiful monkeys today. Or, I will shoot them and then shoot you in very short order, and I will leave anyway. That is the math, little man.”

Clint makes a face, but Natasha nods, slowly, as if she’s interested in a compromise. Normally Clint loves watching her work an unsub up to the moment they realize they’ve dug their own grave — but he isn’t sure she’ll have enough time to work through this before the bedamned Red Skull gets bored and starts putting the first of three shots into someone’s head.

“If you make no sudden movements,” Nat says, “we’ll let you gather up whatever you need.”

“Romanoff,” Clint whines, still playing angry cop to her serenity. Profiling data says in a case like this, with an arrogant sociopath, these sort of gestures work better if the unsub thinks they are getting special treatment, especially from a woman. They’ve worked at least a hundred unsubs like this, and Clint’s blood is racing with the tension but _also_ with the familiarity, he and Nat against real evil.

“If you think a few feet will make a difference in my accuracy,” Schmidt pronounces very slowly and carefully, “You will be dead. Wrong.”

While Nat considers Schmidt, Clint manages to catch Almada’s eye. He makes a subtle _come here_ gesture with his hand while she’s looking at him — and then holds up the universal _woah, not yet_ sign when she immediately makes to come forward. Fucking civilians.

“Barton,” Nat says, her voice very soft. “Stand down.”

Clint knows from history that the use of his last name is likely to be a deliberate signal, meaning Nat has an idea. He doesn’t drop his handgun at all, but he lets his posture slump, making the motion sharp and obvious enough that Schmidt can read his body language; the unsub is meant to believe Clint’s given in. They usually respond in one of two ways: either taking what they want while it’s “safe”, or trying to convince Clint of how terrible it is to take orders from a woman; Clint hopes it’s the first, because Tasha already looks mad enough for four, to anyone who knows how to read her.

Schmidt doesn’t take his eyes off of them for a second, but he takes one step to the side, and another, slowly. Almada shifts forward a small bit, and when Delmontes sees her move, he takes another slow shuffling step. Schmidt’s eyes narrow, but he continues his course, pausing close to the window, hands on a stack of file folders.

The _**snap**_ of the shot shocks them all. It seems to be the first indicator that anything has happened, followed by the tinkling of broken glass, shrieks from Delmontes and a series of wheezing gasps from Almada; followed by the reverberation, burning Clint’s ears through his aids, leaving a faint ringing and the adrenaline of shock.

He pushes past Almada and Delmontes to kick the handguns away from Red Skull. His body lies in a half-twist on the floor, one single perfect shot to the skull.

Clint knows that wasn’t Bucky’s original angle. He knows Bucky must have adjusted on the fly, realigned, and shot in _seconds._ Fuck. The guy’s good. 

“Barnes,” Nat says, tapping her earpiece, “you can come in. Nice shot.”

“Nice shot,” Clint adds, “you mean fucking incredible shot.”

Rogers breaks in with a bit of static. “Leave his ego alone, you two.”

“Stuff it, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice sounds light: a bit worn out, a bit incredulous. “I’m on my way.”


	9. Epilogue

Phil is always amazed at how fast the BAU can pack up and vacate a room - a headquarters - after the way they practically move in and take over every single time. It wasn’t always too much of an invasion, but Stark’s holotech changed the way they do cases, which means they have to bring it and surround themselves with it to take full advantage. Phil knows pieces of this case would have been impossible without Stark’s networks and holo layouts and deep data diving — but he also knows, on every case, that there’s always that human factor from the team that an AI just can’t manage to piece together. At least the tech is light and easy to move around with them from case to case.

This one will end successfully, if not happily. The final victim is a victim of chance, and that bothers Phil in a different way than the victims of intention usually do, so he’s ending it unsorted on all fronts: his brain spends too much time trying to discern victims of motive, intention, opportunity, chance, as if they’re weighted differently, when it all ends in bodies. John Smith, or Johann Schmidt, is dead; his body will remain in FBI custody until whatever kind of trial they can construct starts; he’s contacted a friend of a friend to do what he can to keep the body from being extradited. From here, all Phil can do is trust the court systems, and make sure their work is summed up in as helpful a way as possible. He sighs aloud.

The conference room looks empty. It’s almost sterile. With the case over, Stark assumed permission to finally pass out from what Phil suspects is a 36-hour (and possibly 36 cups of coffee) caffeine-fueled information bender. He’s the last item to take out to the SUVs: Tony’s curled up on the floor in a corner with Bruce’s corduroy jacket over him as a blanket. No one has touched him yet.

Phil always goes over a mental checklist at the end of every case, for his team. There’s a written checklist for case paperwork, of course - now done automatically as they submit pieces electronically - which he isn’t looking forward to, but: his team can occasionally rub themselves up against something, or a case can leave splinters that won’t show up for weeks. He likes to take the time to review each team member, hoping to get ahead of any adverse mental baggage.

No injuries, at least. Check.

Romanoff, his second. Natasha’s better than most, at least, at delaying her reactions until off the field. The downside is that Phil never knows when something has affected her poorly. The upside is that she’s quite good at dealing, and since she opened herself up to more sociable relationships with team members not named Clint Barton, she’s had a decent support network to do so.

Barton himself can be an emotional rollercoaster during a case, although he’s the first to hit even keel afterwards. In this case, Phil watched Barton walk out on Thursday evening knowing he was off to do - whatever mysterious things he does when he gets all wound up - and then watched him walk in Friday glowing and reenergized. Phil should figure out what he did and make him repeat it; whatever it was, it doesn’t seem like Clint will carry much away from this case. He does need to commend Clint for bringing Rogers and Barnes onboard so hard — it isn’t always easy with local cops.

Odinson. Not Phil’s technically, but on loan from another department; Phil still watches, but has less to offer. Thor’s not entirely a subordinate, and either way, the case shouldn’t have adversely affected him at all.

Banner, and - as always - from Banner to Stark: these are Phil’s problem children, but what can he do? They have additional tech support at the home office - two entire techs assigned to support them, in fact - but a Banner-Stark teamup means there isn’t even a conversation about involving anyone else. Stark has obviously and as usual pushed himself beyond normal limits — Phil’s almost through giving a shit, because nothing he says can convince Stark to do otherwise. But Banner really pulled through on this one by connecting science to science, and worked himself almost as hard. Phil needs to watch and make sure they recover over the next few days.

“Are you thinking, or asleep with your eyes open?”

Chief of Police Peggy Carter has been a wonder to work with. She has a keen eye and a fine edge, she gave them her two best officers to assist, and her comments and insights helped Phil shape the profile into what it needed to be. Phil offers her a grin; it comes out wry, crooked, and he realizes he probably needs some rest as well.

“Mental review,” he admits, and Peggy pulls out the chair beside him and sits down.

“I would hope it’s full of passing marks,” she says, the accent brisk. Peggy hasn’t slept any more than Phil, and yet seems completely fresh and ready to go. “Your team has been incredibly informative to watch.”

“And your team has been instrumental to solving the case,” Phil tells her, putting genuine gratitude into it. “Rogers and Barnes are absolutely exemplary detectives, your other officers were invaluable support, and you yourself had a couple keen suggestions that helped me focus.”

Peggy’s lips curve upwards into a deep red smile. “Passing marks all around, then.”

Can I steal you, Rogers, Barnes, and maybe your entire building? Phil thinks. I have idiots that need a good replacing.

Instead he stands and extends a hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Peggy’s smile turns softer, more genuine, and she holds his hand for a second too long. “Likewise, Phil.”

———-

Bucky shuts his locker door with a sigh. He almost can’t believe this last week. He’s done all kinds of shit, sure, between the Army and the Task Force and normal beat cop stuff and undercover and all, but — he’s never quite seen work like the BAU do, the combination of crime scenes investigation and database analysis with the profiling edge, that understanding of what makes the person do this and how you can work backwards into a solution even as you work the evidence forwards. It was fucking fascinating to watch, and he’s pretty sure that their normal city cases are going to seem boring for a good while; not that he needs to see any more death, but he most certainly doesn’t need to see any more stupid robberies turned fatal by accident, where the only good thing he and Stevie can do is bag and tag.

There are two things hovering in his mind, though, that he needs to work off before he’s going to be of use. That shot; and, well. Clint Barton. He’s jittery and all worked up from both.

He knew the shot was going to be perfect the second he exhaled and pulled the trigger. It was that almost detached combination of all things, when you’re almost watching yourself from the outside and you can see all of the details lining up. Sniper shots aren’t always that good; it isn’t all the aim, it’s position and placing and the sight line and the conditions and environment. But this one was good. It was solid. It was ...thrilling.

That’s the part he needs to come down from, to burn off like excess energy; Bucky’s been on an almost intense high, still, from the thrill of making that shot — after the wait, and then seeing the unsub appear in the window he wasn’t aiming at and having to make that split-second choice, those split-split-second adjustments: well, there’s a buzz comes off a shot like that and it hangs around for a few days, until the next adrenaline rush kicks in. 

Bucky isn’t sure he likes it. He did it for survival in the Army. In this case, it wasn’t his survival, it was someone else’s — plus the target was known to be something evil, not some innocent bystander. But he isn’t used to this rush anymore, and he’d rather not associate sniper’s high and killing anyone with any kind of good mood. At this point, it feels a little weird. He’s repeating to himself, over and over, that he shot a serial killer who had taken out at least 8 lives in a matter of days, and that it was the right thing to do. It still feels weirdly unsettled.

As for the second… Bucky finds Clint, half-lost, looking around the lounge where they’d slept in shifts with a confused frown, as if looking for something specific.

“Hey,” Bucky says. Casually. Friendly. Not at all acknowledging the adrenaline rush associated with Clint.

Clint only startles a tiny bit, turning around and rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey,” he says. “Just checking that I - we - had everything out of here.” He’s also casual. A little too casual? Fuck, Bucky has no idea.

“I think you’re good,” he says, smirking a bit as he scans the room. It’s back to its normal, bland-and-comfortable state. The Howlies have all hidden their pillows away again, with threats to booby-trap the desk chair of the next person who steals them. Bucky and Steve have already planned to preemptively booby-trap the whole bunch of them.

“Well, I,” Clint says, and he ducks his head and passes a hand through the back of his hair again. “I was maybe - I was looking for you.”

Something in Bucky’s chest squeezes, and he catches Clint’s eye and says, “Good.”

They pause, eyes remaining locked. Bucky thinks of Clint’s eyes, that dark blue-green, looking at him with such intensity — what even can he say? Wow, thanks for the sex, wanna do it again? But he wants to say something. He tries to take in as much of Clint’s face as he can, in case this ends up being only a spectacular memory, and realizes too late that he’s ended up smiling broadly upwards at Clint.

It’s okay, though, because Clint has a similarly dumb smile on his face. 

“Look.” Clint’s voice is light, almost tentative. “So, I looked it up to be sure, and Quantico and Baltimore aren’t actually too far apart, you know, and there’s plenty in between, so, um, if you ever wanted to like, meet up for dinner, or drinks, or dinner and drinks…”

“Gimme your phone,” Bucky replies instantly.

Clint raises an eyebrow and hands it over - “Unlock it, asshole,” and he does - and Bucky navigates into his contacts and adds Bucky Barnes into Clint Barton’s FBI mobile.

“There,” he says, handing it back, and he doesn’t miss the way Clint grins when he sees it. “If you ever want to, like, text or something. If you’re bored. Or,” and he shrugs, although he’s sure his entire face is giving it away. “For dinner and drinks.”

Clint’s smile goes soft and fond and he says, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The smile makes Bucky all kinds of wanting, almost instantly, and he takes a short step towards Clint and murmurs, “Can I just—”

Clint meets him halfway, his mouth already eager and pressing; Bucky surges up into it, lips already parted, tracing out Clint’s tongue with his own. His hands are around Clint’s neck, and Clint’s tugging at his waist, before he even realizes: but Clint’s mouth is hot, and full of firm promises, gasping into Bucky’s like it’s the first time.

When they pull apart, so gently, Bucky’s panting and Clint looks rather disheveled.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to forget that.”

Clint just smirks at him. “You’re a hard man to leave, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky remembers saying that the morning after and feels his cheeks heat up, fast, wow.

Clint just winks at him and moves in to press a simple kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Gotta go, though.”

“Keep in touch,” Bucky says, and the thought of it is exciting, a little bit like a promise.

Clint’s eyes go warm. “Oh, I will.”

—————-

It is 22:30 on Saturday evening and Peggy Carter is so ready for bed — when her phone rings.

Caller ID says Marcus.

“I thought I’d heard the last from your team,” she says as a greeting.

“Chief Carter,” says Fury. “I am fairly sure you know why I’m calling.”

Peggy sighs. “I am entertaining a few possibilities,” she says. “Why don’t you clarify?”

Fury chuckles. “Peggy. Your team, your boys, you - the whole damn task force - showed up with stellar performance and really good support. You helped take down one of the worst marksman killers we’ve had in years.”

Peggy arches an eyebrow, although Fury can’t see her. “And?”

“I have openings,” Fury tells her. “You know I have to ask.”

“Ah,” she says. “Yes, I rather thought it was going to be that one.”

“Rogers and Barnes could walk on to any of a couple teams for a two-year stint. Hell, so could you. It’s only paperwork.” There’s a pause, and then Fury adds: “If I remember you correctly, Peg, this silence means you’ve already thought about this and you have some kind of conclusion about it. Want to share with the rest of the class?”

Peggy laughs, then, bright and fond.

“You know I take care of my men,” she begins. “All of them. And we both know this task force has been here in Baltimore for two years, and significant progress has been made. Rogers and Barnes…” She stops to think of phrasing, and then continues, “It would make an excellent next step for either or both of their careers from here.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but,” Fury tells her bluntly, “or we’d be doing paperwork already.”

“Isn’t there always?” Peggy reaches for her tea, takes a sip, thinks through how to lay out the next few pieces of her thoughts. 

“Rogers and Barnes won’t split up, at the moment,” she says slowly, “and neither will they want to leave the team I’ve created here. Yet. There’s too much… common ground.” She takes another sip; it’s getting cold. “Rogers… specifically… won’t want to leave the team.” Her heart beats, hard, for a moment.

“But Barnes would?”

“Barnes is different,” Peggy says, “as well you know. Always has been. That’s why they make such an excellent pair. But Barnes won’t run without Steve, not yet.”

“You keep using that word, yet,” Fury points out. “And it means…?”

Peggy smiles to herself. “I won’t lie when I say that solving this case with the BAU brought something new across everyone’s desk. Rogers and Barnes have played traditional but exemplary detective as well as they played traditional but exemplary soldiers — I think this may be the first time they’ve gotten any kind of peek inside this type of door. And Barnes…” The smile broadens. “Barnes may be thinking about it for additional reasons, as well.”

“That dog,” Fury says with admiration, because of course he knows exactly what Peggy isn’t saying. She never knows how he knows these things.

She drops her voice. “Now is not the time, Director. Anything you offer now will be refused on principle, simply because the ripples haven’t had time to ...spread.”

“Again I’m hearing a yet.”

“Well,” Peggy says tartly, then laughing. “I have some things I need to look into, and - if the signs are right - some work I would have to do. But,” and now she’s just teasing him, “if you were to come back in, say, three or four months with a similar proposal, I expect your answer could be quite different.”

“Chief Carter,” Fury says, laughter and admiration in his own voice, “is there ever a point in time that you don’t have plans on plans and another plan up your sleeve?”

“A woman in this business likes to have options,” Peggy says primly, and hangs up on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, WOW, TIME TO LAY MY SOUL OUT ON A PLATE FOR THIS ONE
> 
> When I say this story ran away with me, I mean it. I wrote 50K in ten fucking days once I had this idea. TEN DAYS. I outlined it, sat down, and just _barfed._ I realize I’m that guy who shows up in the exchange with 57K like a loser; I also realize I’m That Guy showing up years late for this fandom with Starbucks. I hope nobody gets weirded out by it. If you knew me from previous fandoms you’d know that I’m one of the Queens of the tl;dr when it comes to a good fanfic idea. Why write 5K when you could write 57K and hate yourself? B-b-b-bingo.
> 
> I haven’t written anything like this in years. I’m currently on sabbatical to rethink my life (lol no big deal) and the way this story just leapt into existence, even half-formed and full of holes, was so much fucking fun. (Thank _fuck_ for Rina and Ira, who bashed their way through my holes and drunken prose to shape this thing into the pleasant romp it is. And thank fuck for brandy. So much brandy.)
> 
> A couple thoughts to leave you with:  
> 1\. Disabilities. I fully appreciate Deaf!Clint and Prosthetic!Bucky and wanted them to represent in this story. I also wanted their disabilities to never be a big deal or a focus that took over the story, which is why mentions are small and the boys are very functional. I have my own disabilities but no personal experience with either case; there are plenty of great fics that address and explore both. This is not one of them. I wanted to mention but not dwell. I hope I hit a believable balance.  
> 2\. At some point I’ll have to post the outtakes from the creation and beta-ing of this fic because I literally laughed so hard at myself I fucking cried. Ira will never forgive me for comparing Clint’s dick to a bow, there’s a “good vibes” joke that ended with Tony making a PowerPoint about sex toys, Ben invented the lube arrow, and Rina can finally go back to telling me to stick a ghost up Clint’s ass. I had a great crew putting up with my garbage trash shipping dumpster diving disaster ass for a month and supporting me through the ups and downs of making this fic work. Bonus: never edit fic while drunk. You end up with random nipples and a whole slew of GDoc comments you’ve resolved by just saying _word_  
>  2a. A shout-out and thank-you to my husband who will never see this but has the patience of a saint for putting up with my random hooting, crying, and frantic word-dumping over the holidays, when he doesn’t even know what any of this shit is, isn’t remotely in any kind of fandom other than the goddamned Cleveland Browns, and couldn’t pick Bucky out of a lineup of blondes.  
> 3\. Series. There’s SO MUCH about this world that didn’t make it into this fic! On one hand it’s good to have a deadline because otherwise I might have kept poking and never finished, but on the other hand... it means I still have plenty to dig into. There are actually two sequels: first, a silly little bit-and-piece thing for me to have fun with; and second, another case that smashes the two departments together, which has so far been working-titled _The Case of Loki_ , _Mr. Scratch Comes To Town_ , and _I Hate Myself And Everyone In This Bar._  
>  4\. I need to stop typing because this is the longest author’s note in the history of space. I love Bucky, I love Clint, and I hope to barf many more words about them in the future. Bye. Follow me on tumblr at **[sevdrag](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag)** please, i promise i’m Mostly Fun and i really need more winterhawk friends  
> 5\. I’m really proud of my “Brandy - freeform” tag AO3 plz dont delete it


End file.
